


Coffee and Cigarettes

by Oroburos



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (the dog will be okay I promise), Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Background AmeriKate, Background Relationships, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon-Typical Violence, Deaf Clint Barton, Dialogue Heavy, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Spot the cameo, background Steve/Sam, harm to an animal, internalized ableism, mention of past child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 20:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7948513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oroburos/pseuds/Oroburos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where the first words your Soulmate will say to you are written somewhere on your body, what happens when your future soulmate apparently works in a shitty service industry job? Well, if your best friend is Steve Rogers, it means you get dragged into every single all-night diner on the East Coast trying to find that one poor Denny's employee that will activate your Mark. Hey, at least Bucky knows where to start looking, right? </p>
<p>Meet, fall in love, live happily ever after. Yeah, right. Life is not quite that simple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first published fanwork in the Marvel fandom and my first time writing all of these characters (please go easy on me). It was also my first time participating in a Bang project and the first time I've written anything major in a very long time. So much for a silly 2am idea. 
> 
> I'd like to thank my artist partner Alyssa (@thatflyguyhawkeye on tumblr), and Molly the winterhawk bang organizer for putting this all together and giving me the motivation to pick the keyboard up again. I'd also like to thank tumblr user @shashayed whose CA:TWS meta I took and put in Sam's mouth. 
> 
> Format notes: things inside quotation marks and BOLDED indicate signed dialogue.  
> ETA: There is now a [fanmix](http://8tracks.com/atomicno27/c-c-playlist)

 

 

_And now for the Weather. Looks like a beautiful weekend coming up here on the Eastern Shore, with clear skies and highs in the mid-seventies…_

 

“Oh my god, Bucky, look!” Steve shouted.

 

Bucky peeked his eyes open and lifted his head to track the roadsign Steve was pointing at as they passed it. It took his brain a second to make out the logo, then he thunked his head back against the window and groaned. “No.”

 

“We’re stopping,” Steve announced with a giddy smile.  

 

“No. Steve. We’re not stopping.”

 

“We are totally stopping.”

 

“No, we’re on a schedule. Just this one time, can we just skip it?”

 

“Nope!” Bucky tried a glare, but Steve ignored it. “Come on Buck, I got a good feeling about today. You can’t pass up fate!”

 

“It’s not fate,” Bucky grumbled, “it’s you being an asshole. I thought you were all excited to be seeing your boyfriend again--”

 

“I am,” Steve grinned dopily.

 

“--and we’re gonna be late meeting up with him if we stop!” Bucky protested, but Steve was already pulling into the exit. “Steven!”  

 

“It’ll be fine,” Steve waved at him. “We’re a little bit ahead of schedule anyway. Besides, I’m starving!”

 

“You’re always starving, you big lug,” Bucky grumbled. He stared morosely out the window as they passed a gas station, a sad looking strip mall, and a hand-made sign cheerfully advertising a church yard sale. Where even were they? “Not everybody’s Meeting is all fairy-tale like yours was. The only thing we’re gonna get out of this is some shitty coffee.”

 

“And bacon,” Steve added cheerfully. “Look, we’ve never been here before, and it’s not like your Meeting’s gonna happen in a library or something...”

 

Bucky grimaced and reached up to rub at his empty, scar-ridden left shoulder.  Steve was too nice to say what usually followed the rest of that phrase, but Bucky heard it anyway. _‘At least you know where you’ll find them. At least you’re not running around in the dark, hoping and waiting. You should be happy your Mark says something unique, something trackable. Do you know how many peoples’ Marks say “Good Morning”? You should be grateful’._

 

Yeah, well, maybe he’d be more grateful if his Mark hadn’t led him to a lifetime of punk best friends trying to force him into eating fried diner food every time they left the damn apartment. What did it matter anyway? His mark was gone now. He’d lost it along with his arm, his career, and every plan he’d ever had for his life. What kind of soulmate would want him like this?

 

“Hey,” Steve said gently as Bucky picked at his empty left sleeve, “have a little faith. The worst that could happen is we get some coffee and go on our way. But the best?” And he took eyes off the road to glance at Bucky a second, radiating all that optimism he’d turned up to 11 since meeting Sam last year. “Well, I’d think the best that could happen is worth trying for. Don’t you?”

 

Bucky could only grumble at him as they pulled into the parking lot of the bane of Bucky’s life, the place that had haunted him ever since his Mark came in: _Welcome to…_

 

Denny’s.

 

\-------

 

“Clint Barton, you look like shit.”

 

Kate frowned at him judgmentally as he was halfway through filling a pitcher of ice water for a round of top-offs in the dining room.  “What did you do?” she asked, pointing to the line of butterfly bandages holding the gash in his forehead together.

 

He pulled a half-grin, steadying the pitcher so he didn’t spill it everywhere (again). “Nothin’. Dancing accident.”

 

She stared at him. He stared back. Then he exhaled and slumped. “Some idiot tried to mug me this morning and I kicked his ass, alright?”

 

“You’re a disaster,” Kate said.

 

“How is it my fault that I got mugged?”

 

“You coming into work to bleed all over the place is your fault.” She poked him in the chest and pushed past him to load up her serving tray.

 

“It’s not bleeding anymore! Is it?” Clint raised his hand to his forehead to check. _Ow._ Okay, no touching the open wound. But his fingers came away clean, so he was fine.

 

“A pair of hotties just got seated in your section,” Kate said. “Well, one hottie. The other one kind of looks like a hobo. Maybe you can get some pity tips.”

 

Clint snorted, pushed the door open and held it for her. Kate hip-checked him into the door a bit as she passed -- gently, not hard enough to jostle the food. She was a goddamn _professional_ and everything. Clint shook his head. Right, a _professional_ rich girl slumming it in a truck-stop-town Denny’s because she had _“Can I get an All-American Slam”_ on her thigh. She was a good friend though, he couldn’t deny that. Also she had excellent taste in booze.

 

Clint went and made his refill round, eyeing the newly-seated pair at table fifteen. Kate was right, they _were_ a pair of hotties; two guys with that “road trip” look about them, one tall and blonde with shoulders for days, the other with a curtain of dark hair and eyes that Clint could tell from _across the room_ were bright and clear, though currently sporting some sad caffeine-deprived dark circles. Poor guy. Clint’s heart ached in sympathy.

 

Clint returned his pitcher and went over to fifteen, clicking his pen and putting on his Customer Smile. Something about how Bright-Eyes was slumping and glaring at his cheery blonde friend knocked the insincerity off it though. _Aw, grumpy cat,_ he thought to himself, enchanted. He stepped up to the table, Made Eye Contact (wow, Bright-Eyes was even prettier up close, Katie didn’t know what she was talking about) and Smiled. “Hey there, Welcome to Denny’s!” he said with less-false-than-usual cheer, “I’m Clint, I’ll be your server today. What can I get you? Maybe some coffee to start off?” He winked at Bright-Eyes, who was now staring at him really intently.  

 

“Uh, yeah, please?” said Blonde, putting down his menu. “Two coffees, non-dairy creamer if you have it?” Clint nodded and wrote it down. “And can I just get bacon and eggs? No toast or anything like that. What do you want, Buck? … Bucky?”

 

Clint looked. Bright-Eyes was still _staring_ at him, bug-eyed and slack-jawed. Clint had a second to wonder _what the heck_ before the guy opened his mouth and--

 

“ _Oh my god._ ”

 

and the whole world stopped, and all the air rushed out of the room and _“You’re beautiful,”_ the Words echoed echoed echoed and Bright-Eyes ( _Bucky_ ) was _glowing_ and Clint couldn’t do anything but stare at _Bucky_ and _listen._

 

Clint’s Mark had come in when he was thirteen. He’d first noticed it while staring in a mirror, with two black eyes and a busted lip, cleaning blood off his face, out of his hair. He’d seen it, birthmark-color on his chest, almost invisible, blending in with the bruising from his cracked ribs, blunt-force-trauma boot-and-fist-marks _thanks dad_ on his torso. Right above his heart: _You’re beautiful._ He’d smashed the mirror. _Take that, universe._ He’d thought, at the time, it was some kind of sick universal joke. But the years went on and his life didn’t get any better, but the Words still stayed, unchanging. And now...

 

Reality snapped back painfully, with an aching in Clint’s chest that he now realized was his Soulmark. He rubbed at it absently and stared at his -- at _Bucky. Oh god, he’s_ **_mine_ ** _\--_ who looked just about as shell-shocked as Clint was feeling right then.

 

_“Bucky,”_ he heard the blonde exhale, rapturous-sounding. Clint managed to glance over and the guy looked like he’d just got the best birthday present of his life. Like _he_ was the one who’d just met his soulmate. In a Denny’s. Smelling like stale coffee and cigarettes. Oh _fuck._  

 

_Shit, I’m at_ ** _work_** _,_ Clint thought wildly and racked his brain trying to remember if there was a company policy on meeting your Soulmate while on-duty. _I’m a wreck, did I even shower this morning?_  No way would his boss let him get off early, once-in-a-lifetime event or no, and his shift had barely started. _I’ve got a literal hole in my head. Great first impression, Barton._ _Fuck, what do I do?_

 

“Uh,” Clint said eloquently, “I’m.” He took a breath. _Pull yourself together, Barton._ “I’ll be right back.” And he ran. He retreated back into the kitchen, fell against the wall, gripped his hair in his hands and very quietly _freaked the fuck out_.

 

\-------

 

Bucky blinked. The waiter ( _Clint_ ) vanished through the swinging metal doors into the back and there were several beats of silence.

 

“Uh. I’m sure he’s coming back,” Steve said. Bucky could only continue to stare. It had finally happened, just like in the movies with the time-stopping, air-rushing, _glowing._ He’d finally met his soulmate. And they had immediately run away. Bucky was still too shocked to be offended.

 

A black-haired waitress pushed through the doors into the back. A few moments later she popped her head back out, stared at them wide-eyed, and disappeared again. A few _more_ moments later she left the back, walked right up to their table and slammed her hands on it like she was preparing for a speech.

 

“Okay,” she said. “Clint is being a big baby about this, but I guess he _is_ kind of on duty and this _is_ kind of weird and if he serves your table he _will_ probably get distracted flirting with you and end up not doing his job and getting fired. So, I’m taking over.”

 

“That’s uh, okay. That’s fair I guess,” Steve said. Bucky grimaced.  It _did_ make sense, but did the guy ( _Clint, His name is Clint_ ) really have to run away like that? He’d looked panicked. Maybe he’d noticed Bucky’s missing limb and freaked out…

 

“Cool,” the waitress was saying. “I’m Kate. I already got your order, handsome,” she pointed to Steve with her pen. “And for you, lucky guy of the day,” she said to Bucky, and he couldn’t tell if she was being sarcastic or not, “did you want anything besides the coffee? Sorry for the inconvenience and everything.”

 

“...No.” Bucky managed to tear his gaze away from the silver kitchen doors. He stared at the table instead. “Just coffee’s fine, thanks.”

 

“Okay,” she said too cheerfully, “two coffees comin’ right up!”

  
  


“You okay, Buck?” Steve asked him quietly when the waitress had gone.

 

Bucky stared at the table. “Dunno,” he said hoarsely. “Just … not sure what to think.” He looked up, back towards the kitchen doors, just as Clint finally reappeared out of them. The waiter was hunched in on himself and tugging on his ear, which Bucky now noticed had some kind of purple thing in it. It was definitely not an earring. Some kind of hearing aid? Bucky had thought those only came in flesh tones.

 

Clint caught him staring. Their eyes locked across the diner. Clint pulled off a tiny little half-smile that somehow looked both apologetic and self-depreciating, and for some reason it gave Bucky the mental image of a kicked puppy. He felt an inexplicable twinge of protectiveness. He tried a tentative smile back, and the change that came over Clint’s expression was amazing. Tension flowed out of his frame and the smile that cracked his face was just... brilliant. Breathtaking. Bucky swore stuff started glowing again.

 

And then he was suddenly blinded by a camera flash in his face. He blinked away the spots and shot a glare at Steve, who already unrepentantly tapping on his phone. “Just letting Sam know why we’ll be running late,” Steve said cheerfully. Bucky dropped his forehead to the table, just in time for Kate to return with their coffees.

 

\-------

 

Clint worked on the other side of the dining room now -- he and Kate must have switched. Bucky watched him the whole meal. Steve didn’t seem to mind, just smiled encouragingly at him whenever Bucky looked his way, decimated his breakfast, and stuck to his phone (probably texting Sam--ok, definitely texting Sam). Clint was aware of the eyes on him. He kept looking back, meeting Bucky’s gaze for a second or two. The first couple of times he looked embarrassed and looked away from Bucky’s smile. Then, slowly, he started smiling back, a blush spreading across his face. Bucky couldn’t stop staring.

 

They had to leave eventually, though. At the end of the meal Kate brought the check, and Clint. “Hey,” Clint smiled sheepishly, “So… I don’t get off work for another six hours. And I guess you guys are just passing through?”

 

“Yeah, we’re headed to Virginia,” Bucky answered.

 

“Right, so. Uh.”

 

Kate rolled her eyes and took Clint’s cell phone right out of his back pocket. He looked only mildly surprised at this violation of personal space. “Number,” Kate demanded, “and I’ll text it to myself too for when Clint breaks his phone again.”

 

“I don’t--I don’t break them that often, Kate you’re making me look bad!”

 

“You bricked your last one three weeks ago downloading a hacked bootleg of Candy Crush.”

Clint looked exasperated, but they exchanged numbers with a minimum of fuss. And then they had to go. Clint had to get back to work. He followed Steve and Bucky to the exit and fidgeted.

 

“So uh, yeah. Text me when you get to where you’re going?” Clint looked sort of cautiously hopeful. “And I’ll text or call you or whatever when I get home? Do you have Video-Phone?”

 

“I’ll download it,” Bucky promised. And he privately added an ASL learning app or two to the list. He wasn’t sure how he was going to sign with just one hand to work with, but there had to be ways, right? There had to be deaf people who lost their arms sometimes. He could at least manage the alphabet, probably.

 

Clint and Bucky smiled at each-other kind of dopily for several moments, before an irritated voice from the kitchen yelled Clint’s name. “Yeah, okay. Back to work,” Clint winced, then smiled again. “It was nice meeting you, Bucky.”

 

“Yeah, same.” Bucky couldn’t stop grinning, even as he walked backward towards the exit where Steve was holding the door and smirking triumphantly. “I’ll uh, I’ll text you, yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Clint answered. “I’ll. I’ll call you. See you. Later?”

 

“Yeah, later.” Bucky’s face was starting to hurt with all the smiling he’d been doing, but he couldn’t seem to stop. “Alright, punk, I’m comin’,” he said to Steve, and with a final wave over his shoulder they finally made it out the door and back to the car.

 

Back on the road, Steve managed to keep his silence for an admirable span of five whole minutes before he started snickering.

 

Bucky sighed. “Okay. Come on, get it out.”

 

“I told you!” Steve crowed. He laughed, smacked the steering wheel, and took his eyes off the road to blind Bucky with his all-American teeth. “I told you! I knew something was gonna happen today. I had a good feeling about this trip. I told you!”

 

“Yeah yeah…”  Bucky attempted a surly grumble, but there wasn’t any heat in it. He still couldn’t stop smiling. So instead he slouched and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt low over his eyes. “I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?”

 

“Nope!” Steve cheered, and queued up his ipod to play through the car stereo.

 

Bucky groaned when the first annoying pop-sugar song started up. The rest of the trip was gonna be torture. But Bucky still couldn’t stop smiling.

 

\-------

  


They pulled into the overstuffed driveway of Sam’s aunt’s place just in time for dinner, which meant that Steve and Bucky were whisked into the Wilson family chaos vortex faster than they could blink. Sam swooped in immediately and dragged Steve away, leaving Bucky alone with the madhouse. He was hugged and kissed on the cheek by a parade of total strangers, had a plate of food shoved into his hand by someone he barely got a glance at, then an old lady smacked his ass and shuffled him into a dining area that seemed to take up half the house. A lot of the people fussing over him were telling him _Congratulations_. Apparently the rumor mill worked fast around here.  

 

He escaped as soon as he could, finding a blessedly empty balcony and sliding the door closed behind himself to shut out the interior noise. He fell into a lounge chair and pulled out his phone. He stared at it a couple seconds, then sent a simple text before he could talk himself out of it:

 

_B: Arrived safely. Currently being crushed to death by strangers and southern cooking_

 

He slipped his phone back in his pocket, not expecting a reply anytime soon with Clint still at work. He looked out over the yard, marveling at the number of people. It looked as crowded out there as it had been inside the house. How many people were there at this shindig anyhow? Were they ALL Sam’s family? Peering, Bucky spotted Steve’s tow-head in a back corner of the yard. He was in a cluster of people, arm around Sam, talking and laughing with a dark-haired white guy and a tall black man in an Air Force uniform, neither of whom Bucky knew.

 

The seating at Sam and Steve’s eventual wedding was gonna be a hell of a thing, Bucky thought. Sam’s side would be stuffed full to bursting and Steve’s would look like an empty house, just his few Peace Corps buddies and Bucky all by his lonesome. Well, he guessed Clint would be there now, too. Maybe. Soulmates were only destined to _Meet,_ after all. Nothing after that was guaranteed.

 

Bucky felt his phone buzz and blinked, surprised, before pulling it out to see the unexpected reply from Clint.

 

_C: Still @ work but u can text me if u want_

_B: Don’t want to get you in more trouble than I probably already have today_

_C: Nah it’s cool don’t worry_

_C: Have 2 text customers anyhow too loud_

 

Bucky frowned at that a moment, before he realized. Oh right, hearing aids. Deaf guy. The noise must be overwhelming him. Bucky felt stupid for forgetting.

 

_B: Busy night huh?_

_C: Y_

_B: I’ll let you work then. All those years having an ad on my arm I never thought about how awkward it would be on the other side. Bet you didn’t plan for this when you got up this morning. And you were already having a rough one from the looks of it. (Is your head okay? What happened there?) Don’t have to text back until you get home. Sorry about it all._

 

He was about to shove his phone back into his pocket when it buzzed at him again.

 

_C: No sorry we cool talk u later_

 

Bucky stared at his phone and realized he was smiling. Again. Somehow the roar of conversation throughout the house felt muffled and less oppressive, more like white noise than a suffocating torrent. Easier to deal with. He closed his eyes and felt the breeze across his face.

 

Eventually, he got up and went to find Steve.

 

\-----------

  


Bucky wove carefully through the throng of people, more certain than ever that they could not all possibly be blood-relations. There was just too many of them. He knew (from Steve’s gushing about Sam over the past year) that the Wilsons had a pretty broad definition of “family”, including not just blood, marriage and Marks but also close friends, and even friends-of-friends. Still, there were _so many_ people here, where were they all meant to sleep?

 

As he finally made his way up to where Steve was he was able to make out their conversation. He realized Sam was telling the story about how he and Steve met.

 

“So I’m just jogging down the Mall, right?” Sam was saying, gesticulating while holding a beer bottle. “Minding my own business. Enjoying my morning where the humidity’s lower than fifty percent for once in a damn while. When from somewhere behind me I just hear this _voice._ ” And Sam called out in what’s clearly meant to be an impression of Steve, “ _On your left!_ ” Their audience laughed good-naturedly and Bucky saw Steve smile, blush and hide his face in Sam’s shoulder. “And all of a sudden,” Sam continued, “I get the whole _wooosh._ ” He waved his hands around demonstratively, sloshing his beer around. “And the lights down from Heaven itself and the whole rom-com bullshit. And by the time my head’s cleared out the fireworks show, this _white boy,_ ” Sam nudged Steve teasingly, “is, I swear, _two hundred yards_ down the way, full-on sprint like the Devil is after him.” The crowd laughed again, and even Bucky smiled. “And I’m like, _What the_ hell _just happened?_ Did I just miss my Soulmate ‘cuz he’s training for the 400 meter dash or something? And I’m looking around now, wondering what what he’s running from.”  

 

“Been wondering that since high school,” Bucky put in quietly, “when it came in how it did, all caught around his ankle. Used to ask him what he was doing making his soulmate chase him down with a lasso.”  

 

“Punk,” Steve grumbled in his general direction.

 

Sam smiled at them both before continuing his story. “Anyway, I lose sight of him. Don’t know what else to do so I keep running. Thinking I’m gonna have to go on Missed Connections later. And I’m just passing the monument when all of a sudden, here it goes again, _On your left!”_ Sam made wooshing noises again and Steve was beet red with embarrassment, but he was laughing with everyone else. “And again, he’s two blocks down the way before I can blink. And now I’m thinking, ‘ _Oh, it is_ **_on_ ** _._ I don’t know what the hell is going on here but it is _on.’_ ”

 

“Wait, wait,” said a dark-haired man near Bucky. “You cannot possibly have lapped him, Steve. What did you do? Pull over, hide behind a bush and wait for him to pass you again?”

 

“I plead the fifth,” Steve smirked.

 

“Shut up, I’m talking,” Sam shushed them both. Steve tried to pull an innocent puppy-dog look, but Sam just smacked his arm.

 

“Now, the _third time,”_ Sam continued over the laughter of the group, “the third time I’m ready for him. I’m making the turn up from the bridge and sure enough, here he comes with his yelling, and his running, and his _wooosh._ But this time!” He gestures emphatically. “This time, I run up and I catch him right around the middle like Madden.”

 

“He tackled me to the ground,” Steve laughed. “I had no idea he was my Soulmate until he yelled at me, I thought he was just this really hot guy!”

 

“So you admit you were stalking him,” said the dark-haired guy, who was starting to look familiar.

 

“I admit nothing!”  

 

“I’ll admit it for him,” said Sam, “he was stalking me. Always wondered why my Mark repeated like that. Apparently my Soulmate’s just a huge damn troll.”

 

Steve grinned at Sam, unapologetic and adoring. Sam looked back at him, smiling like the sun. Someone in the crowd whistled and yelled at them to get a room.

 

Bucky had to look away. He ended up looking at the dark-haired man, and very suddenly realized who he had been standing next to this whole time. “You’re Tony Stark,” he blurted in surprise.

 

“I am indeed,” Stark said easily, “good eyes.”

 

“How in the hell does Tony Stark end up at a Wilson family reunion?”

 

“Well, I know your bosom-brother Steven there through work, believe it or not.” Bucky blinked in surprise. He’d known Steve met a lot of different kinds of people through his Peace Corps work, even celebrities, but _Tony Stark?_ “He was not the one who invited me to this fancy little get-together, though.” Stark pointed over at the uniformed man Bucky had noticed earlier. “James Rhodes. My Mark-Mate. Well, one of them. He and Wilson Air Force buddies, or something. I think.”

 

Bucky frowned at the oddly clinical phrasing. “Mark-Mate?”

 

“Yeah.” Stark exhaled, looking uncomfortable. “Work in constant progress.”  

 

Bucky winced. “Sorry.”

 

Stark waved him off. “You know what they say. Relationships are work, love is a choice, _yadda yadda_.” He gestured at Steve and Sam, still huddled together with hands literally in each-other’s pockets. “Not everybody gets to be the Nicholas Sparks story. But enough about my problems, let’s talk about yours!”

 

Bucky barely had time to process the sudden shift in topic before he was manhandled away from the conversation cluster. “So you might know -- or maybe you don’t, I don’t know how much attention you pay to the latest in tech gossip -- Stark Industries has recently expanded into the fields of medical biotechnology and research.”

 

“Okay?” Bucky said, confused. Stark retrieved a cola out of a nearby cooler, popped the can open and shoved it into Bucky’s hand without so much as a ‘would you like?’. Bucky was getting very tired of people doing that to him.

 

It must have shown on his face, because Stark winced. “Sorry. I can’t think without something in my hand,” he apologized, popping open an orange soda and taking a sip. “Right. So. Biotech. You.” He pointed helpfully at Bucky. “I notice you don’t wear a prosthetic. Not a judgement,” he rose his free hand in surrender as Bucky’s face twisted, “just an observation. I understand the full-arm ones are more complicated and expensive than others so, totally no judgement here.”

 

Stark began chattering on about new tech and modular systems and Bucky just sipped his cola and tried not to think about those months right after the accident. _Rehabilitation._ The army hadn’t been able to pay for much, especially considering the circumstances of his injury. He’d felt like less of a freak with one arm than he did with the hook hand setup they’d offered, and the medical expenses had already been high enough… _Stop._ Bucky closed his eyes a moment. He didn’t want to think about it. “Sorry, but do you got a point somewhere?” he said aloud.   

 

Stark blinked at him, frozen in a half-gesture. “How do you feel about being a beta tester?”

 

Bucky frowned curiously. “For…?”

 

“Modular Prosthetic Limb technology,” Stark beamed. “These guys are completely revolutionizing the field, and with Stark backing we’ve been able to triple the number of clinical trials. We always need more data, more testing, especially from people with a variety of abilities and backgrounds.”

 

Bucky looked away. The idea of being a guinea pig wasn’t really appealing. And there were other people who needed that kind of help, who deserved it more, who’d lost their limbs to disease and birth defects and war and not to stupid accidents that were their own damn fault. “I don’t know…why me?”

 

“Why not?” Stark shrugged.

 

Bucky scuffed his shoe on the grass. “Ought to give it to somebody who deserves it.”

 

Stark raised his eyebrows. “I’m sorry, are you not the Bucky Barnes who Steve has been talking about non-stop all evening when he’s not busy staring at Wilson like he hung the moon and stars?”

 

“Steve talks too much. He’s just being…Steve.”

 

“You’re a veteran.”

 

Bucky laughed, slightly hysterical. “Hardly! A Veteran who barely made it out of Basic before washing himself out, who didn’t even serve long enough to qualify for anything _._ There’s guys out there who got limbs blown off by IEDs. They’re the ones you ought to be talking to. I was deployed in Europe, and States-side, never even _went_ to the damn desert! I don’t--” he choked up, glared at Stark. “Steve tell you how I lost the arm?”

 

“He said it was a motorcycle accident,” Stark answered. He was watching Bucky strangely, making Bucky feel a bit like he was being mentally undressed but in a completely nonsexual manner.

 

“Yeah, in _Ohio,_ because I was too damn stupid not to ride in the rain.” Bucky cursed. “Christ, I never saw combat, I’m not…” he trailed off, clenched his jaw, and threw his soda can to the ground.

 

Stark was unphased. Just watched him like a puzzle he was trying to figure out, while Bucky ran his hand impatiently through his hair. Then he said, “Maybe it’s not about deserving.”

 

Bucky frowned at him.

 

“Maybe that doesn’t matter,” Stark continued. “Deserving, not deserving... take the calculus out of it. You’re still down a limb. That’s the only relevant data. There’s a need, we try and fill that need. No balancing of the scales of justice involved.” He studied Bucky silently for a moment. “Maybe you have something those other guys don’t have, maybe you can bring something unique to the table. A different kind of need.”

 

“Like what?” Bucky muttered.

 

Stark shrugged. “Purpose? Not to get philosophical on you or anything.” He tilted his head. “You could do good with this, help a lot of people. This is clinical trials for bleeding-edge tech, we need people who are communicative and trustworthy. And if half the stuff Steve’s said about you are true you’ve got the second part down pat.”

 

Bucky stared off into the distance.

 

“Listen,” Stark said, drawing a business card out of his pocket, “you don’t have to decide now. Don’t, in fact. Think about it, sleep on it, talk to your new Life Entanglement Buddy about it.” He held the card out towards Bucky, an offering. “Just, don’t reject the idea out of hand because you’re worried about worthiness, okay?”

 

Bucky stared at the card. Thought about it. Considered the idea of “doing good.” He slowly reached up and took the card. “I’ll think about it,” he said.

 

“That’s all I’m asking.” Stark smiled, patted Bucky’s shoulder, and sauntered off, calling for Rhodes.

 

\----------

 

The sun was setting by the time Clint got off work and he was almost too exhausted to think. He drove slowly through what passed for downtown, towards his apartment block. It was only due to habit and a paranoia bred into him since childhood that he even noticed the trio of sketchy people loitering outside his building. He frowned, passing by his usual turn. Could be just some drunks, but… Clint had a bad feeling. He made a point to know his neighbors, at least their faces, and he didn’t recognize any of these men. And Rosa’s kids weren’t outside playing. Usually they were running around until well past dark, chasing fireflies and each-other. There wasn’t even a discarded bike or nerf gun left outside.

 

Trouble, Clint’s instincts said.

 

He parked his truck a block down the road at a 7-11, right under an obvious security camera in case in case they tried to come slash his tires or something. Then he walked back to the Apartments, taking the back way through an overgrown alley that would shield him from the men, and scaled the fire escape of the building next to his. He hopped quietly across the gap to the roof to his building, dropped down from the gutter and shimmied over to his own bedroom window. He’d made sure to get a top-floor apartment just for this reason.

 

He hadn’t broken into anywhere since his “vacation” two years back (not counting the time or two he’d had to pick his own front door after locking the keys inside), but jimmying open a window was still practically second nature. He slipped in the window and had barely got his feet when he was bowled over by an excited ball of fur.

 

“Hey, buddy, hey!” he ruffled Lucky’s fur, then pushed him off. He shushed the dog’s whine. “Ssh, boy, I gotta take care of something real quick. I’ll be right back.”

 

Then he got his bow.

 

Clint’s apartment faced the back of the building, not the front, so he couldn’t just point an arrow out the window all awesome and threatening and tell the guys to fuck off. Also that would probably get him in trouble. Someone would call the police, and his parole officer would give him the disappointed face. Coulson’s disappointed face was the _worst._

 

He went down to Rosa’s place on the ground floor and knocked on her door. She opened up cautiously, one big brown eye peeking over the door chain. She looked relieved when she saw it was Clint, and even more relieved when she saw he had his bow. “Clinton, how are you?” she greeted, undoing the chain and opening the door enough to lean against. “How was your work?”

 

“Can’t complain,” Clint said, then nodded his head in the direction of the front of the building. “What’s with the hoodie squad out front? Do you know?”

 

Her face hardened. “They were here when my boys got home from school. Roberto came in the door and he said _‘Mami there’s some strange men outside’,_ and I looked out the window and there they are, and I don’t know any of them. I called Susana across the street and she says she doesn’t know them either. And this was hours ago, and they’re still there, just sitting out there. They won’t leave.” She looked at him with concern and wariness written across her round face. “We kept our boys inside all evening. We don’t know what to do.”

 

Clint made a grimace and shifted his shoulders, settling his quiver on his back. “Alright, I’ll go take care of it.”

 

“Don’t hurt anyone, Clinton,” Rosa pleaded. “We don’t want any worse trouble.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Clint winked at her. “I’m just gonna scare ‘em a little. _No problemas._ ”

 

“Be careful.”

 

“I always am.”

 

“No, you are not!” she called as he left. He waved at her over his shoulder.

 

He went to the entrance of the building, bow in hand. He didn’t draw an arrow. He wanted the threat to be present, but not immediate; deniable, if things got rough. He knew that if one of them drew a gun, he was quick enough that he’d be able to put them down before they got off a shot. Most people did not immediately consider a bow and arrow to be a lethal weapon. More the fool them.

 

He opened the door to the building and stood blocking the entryway. “Hey there,” he called out. The three-man Hoodie Squad (Clint mentally dubbed them) looked over at him in unision. “Yard facilities are for tenants only,” Clint said. “So unless you guys got a copy of your lease handy, I’m gonna have to ask you to clear out.”

 

Hoodie Squad all looked at each-other. One of them, whose hoodie was a slightly darker shade of grey than the others, stood up. “Don’t want any trouble, Robin Hood. We’re just lookin’ for somebody. You Barton?” Clint didn’t answer. “We’re lookin’ for Barton. Heard he lives here.”

 

Clint’s grip tightened on his bow. “Heard from who?”  

 

“His brother,” grey hoodie answered. “You seen him? Barney Barton?”

 

“I think you should leave,” Clint said evenly.

 

One of the other Hoodies stepped up to Grey and said something, too low and quiet for Clint to pick up. Grey looked up at Clint again, squinting. “You see Barton or his brother you tell ‘em they’re looked for, huh?”

 

“Sure,” Clint said. He watched the men warily as they turned and walked off. He didn’t take his eyes off them until they had all piled into a beat-up grey SUV parked at the curb. He didn’t relax his stance until that SUV had pulled away, around the corner, and drove out of sight down the road.

 

He counted to twenty, exhaled slowly and shouldered his bow. He went back inside.

 

After checking in on Rosa again, Clint went back upstairs to his apartment. He set his bow and quiver down and collapsed onto his comfy, lumpy couch. Lucky bounded up onto the couch and snuffled at him, making him laugh and bury his face in the dog’s soft fur. _Inhale, exhale._ He let the tension flow out of him, the weight of the day ease off his shoulders. “Buddy,” he said, “you are not gonna _believe_ what happened to me today.”

 

Some people might feel weird talking to an animal about their day, but those people clearly had never had a dog. At least not an awesome dog like Lucky. Clint related the day’s crazy events, the mugging and the Hoodie Squad and meeting _Bucky._ Bucky, whose face lit up when Clint smiled at him, who’d watched him like was something worth watching. Bucky, who had his _words,_ who’d made the world glow like liquid sunlight. And Lucky just sat there being pet and panting happily. Sometimes he’d give Clint’s hand a little dog-kiss. And if he did that mostly because Clint had just got home from work and smelt of food, well, Clint couldn’t really blame him.   

 

“A Soulmate. Me. Can you believe that, boy?” Clint said to Lucky, who head-tilted at him. “Never thought I’d get one.” He rubbed at his chest with the hand not occupied by head-scritches. Rubbed at his mark, at the words that called him _beautiful._  “Always sorta figured this would be sarcastic,” he murmured in wonder. But, Bucky hadn’t _seemed_ sarcastic when he’d said the Words. Which was really weird considering Clint’s… _Clint-ness,_ with the head wound, and the rumpled Denny’s uniform he still hadn't changed out of and couldn’t immediately remember the last time he washed.  Maybe Bucky had a really weird definition of the word “Beautiful”. Or maybe he really _had_ been being sarcastic. Clint didn’t know. He didn’t really know Bucky at all.

 

“Guess I better call him, huh?” he said. Lucky _boof_ ed at him. “Yeah, you’re right. You’re the smart one in the house.” Clint smiled and got out his phone.

 

\-----

 

It was dark out, and Bucky was inside watching Steve lose at go-fish to one of Sam’s tiny cousins when his phone buzzed again. He excused himself, ignoring Steve’s knowing smirk. He went back out to the balcony, which still seemed quiet and unoccupied for the moment.

 

_C: Hey I’m home hope u weren’t crushed 2 death. Still awake?_

_B: Awake and uncrushed. How was work?_

_C: Shitty. OK 2 call?_

 

Bucky chewed on his lip. He looked around, double-checking that there wasn’t anyone else around. This was gonna be awkward enough without an audience.

 

_B: Yeah. Do you want to vid?_

_C: Sure_

 

There was a little side-table next to the chair. Bucky pulled the decorative pillow off the chair, set it on the table and propped his phone up on it. It would do for now. He connected to the Wilsons’ Wi-Fi network, navigated to the program and waited for Clint to connect.

 

_Imnotkatniss now connecting to bbarnes107_

 

The picture resolved, and there was Clint. Smiling. And sitting on a really ugly brown couch.

 

“Hey,” Clint said.

 

“Hi,” Bucky answered. He felt himself smiling back, without knowing why.

 

Clint frowned. “Wow, it is dark as shit where you are. I can barely see you.”

 

“Shit, sorry.” Bucky moved the table a bit towards the porch light, scooted the chair. His phone fell over and he had to right it, feeling his cheeks color. “Better? If you need we can go back to text--”

 

“Nah, it’s cool,” Clint waved him off. “I can hear you okay, just don’t move too far from your phone.”

 

“You sure? I don’t mind.”

 

Clint rolled his eyes at him. “I’ll tell you if there’s a problem, okay? Chill.”

 

Bucky exhaled and relaxed a little. “Okay.”

 

They stared at each-other in silence.

 

_This is awkward._

 

“Alright, before we go any further,” Clint said seriously. “There’s somebody I want you to meet. This is the most important person in my life, okay?”

“Uh.. okay?” Bucky said warily. Did Clint have a kid…? Bucky was absolutely not ready to even consider having a child in his life, not even on the outskirts of his life…

 

Clint looked off-screen and whistled, sharp and shrill. And suddenly there was a tawny brown, blurry mass on Clint’s lap. Licking his face while he laughed and cooed at it.

 

“The most important person in your life… is a dog?” Bucky said slowly, amused.

 

“Yeah,” Clint said defensively. “Don’t hate.”

 

Bucky held his hand up in a _hey man, you do you_ kind of gesture.

 

Clint got his dog’s affection under control and pointed to the screen, looking between it and the dog, _talking to the dog._ “See that guy there, boy?” And the dog actually looked, cocked its head inquisitively. Bucky noticed it only had one eye. “That’s Bucky. He’s who I was telling you about earlier.”

 

“Talkin’ to your dog about me?” Bucky smiled.

 

“‘Course,” Clint said as if that should’ve obvious. He scratched his dog under the chin, which it looked quite pleased about. “His name’s Lucky. See? Your names rhyme, it’s fate.”

 

Bucky decided against trying to make sense of that proclamation. “What kind of dog is he?” he asked instead. “Looks like some sorta retriever.”

 

“Dunno,” Clint said cheerfully. “He’s pretty much a mutt. Those are the best kinds of dogs though, isn’t that right, boy?” Lucky lay his shaggy head on Clint’s knee.  

 

“What happened to his eye?” Bucky asked.

 

“Dunno that either. He was like that when I found him. Well, when he rescued me, really.” Clint smiled fondly down at the animal. “I’d just got--... well, I was having rough time. Trying to put my life together, you know?” Bucky nodded slowly. He could relate. “And it was raining, and I was feeling pretty shitty about myself. Kinda wondering why I even bothered to keep going.”

 

Clint had gotten quiet, and Bucky listened intently. The man on the other side of the screen was looking down at the dog in his lap, but seemed a hundred years away. He had a small, sad smile on his face. The same smile he had at the restaurant, the smile that made him look like he was apologizing for his existence.   

 

“And then,” Clint said, “I look over into the alleyway and there’s this dog. He’s skinny and half-drowned and he looks about as pathetic as I feel. And I didn’t even think. Just picked him up, got him to a vet, took him home, and that was that.” Clint shrugged one shoulder, ran his hand over the dog’s fur. Then looked up at Bucky again. “I guess it gave me something to care about. A reason, you know?”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky said thickly, thinking about _purpose._   

 

“Mine’s on my chest,” Clint said suddenly.

 

“What?” Bucky frowned.

 

“My mark,” Clint said. “It’s on my chest. In your text earlier, you said yours was on your arm.”

 

“Oh. Yeah.” Bucky looked away, pained, and rubbed at his shoulder. “ _Was._ ”

 

“Ouch.” Clint winced. “Okay, rough subject, not suitable for first date conversations.”

 

“You shared,” Bucky shrugged.

 

“I told you about my dog, not my life-altering injury,” Clint said.

 

"Speaking of injuries..." Bucky pointed . "What happened to your head there?

Clint crossed his eyes looking up at his own forehead, like he'd forgotten about it "Oh, uh. I hit my head on a counter this morning, looking for a stupid fry pan." He smiled sheepishly. "I'm kind of accident prone."

 

Bucky shook his head at him ruefully. "You gotta be careful, gonna scramble your brains like that."

 

Clint beamed. "Aw, you care about me already! Okay. New, less-heavy subjects. What kind of video games do you like?”

 

“Don’t play many games,” Bucky said wryly, holding up his one hand. “Kinda hard to with, y’know.”

 

“Bullshit, I play games one-handed all the time.”

 

Bucky’s eyebrows rose.

 

“Uh, not like that!” Clint actually _blushed,_ “I mean not all the-- uh-- .” He sputtered, and Bucky tried not to laugh. “It’s just, sometimes I got something in my other hand and--”

 

Bucky gave up trying not to laugh.

 

“I mean food!” Clint protested. “Like pizza, or a beer! Or I’m signing at Kate or Nat. Quit laughing at me!”

 

“I’m not laughing at you,” Bucky said, trying futilely to stifle his giggles.

 

“You are,” Clint pouted.

 

“I’m really not trying to, I swear. I’m sorry.”

 

Clint huffed, then ducked his head and did that heartbreaking little half-smile again. “It’s alright. Best if you find out early that you got a human garbage fire for a soulmate.”

 

Bucky’s chest hurt. He shook his head. “It’s not that. Really. I mean, I don’t _mind_ the foot-in-mouth thing, not really.” He shifted awkwardly. “Actually… I don’t think I’ve laughed like that in a long while.”

 

“Really?” Clint asked. “Why not?”

 

Bucky looked away from the screen. “Been a rough couple of years.”

 

Clint was quiet for a moment. Bucky wondered if maybe he hadn’t heard what Bucky said, and then, “Too bad. You look really good when you’re laughing.”

 

Bucky looked back to see Clint’s eyes on him, and he couldn’t see well enough through the screen but he remembered their color, grey-blue and piercing. Clint gave him a smile, a shy one that Bucky felt himself returning. He realized he was collecting Clint’s smiles, documenting them and categorizing and saving in his memory like pages in a scrap-book.

 

Suddenly aware that he was staring like an idiot, he cleared his throat awkwardly. “You said something about signing, to your...friends?” he guessed.

 

“Yeah, they come over sometimes and I force them to play video games with me,” Clint grinned. _This is what he looks like when he’s remembering._ “Mario Kart gets really heated.”

 

“And you sign at them?” Bucky said slowly. “You can do it one-handed?”

 

“Yeah, of course.” Clint made a complicated-looking series of motions with his right hand. “I mean, you have to modify some stuff and half the time I’m yelling at Nat in short-hand but…” He hesitated and glanced at Bucky’s empty shoulder. It was barely half a second, but Bucky noticed.  People always stared, and he always noticed. “You don’t have to, you know. I get along alright with my aids.” He was looking at Bucky, but not really _looking_ at him.  

 

“Maybe, but --” Bucky frowned, searching for the right words. “I mean we can meet halfway, right? That’s part of you. You shouldn’t have to… _ignore_ it just to make things easier on me.”

 

“It’s not a big deal.” Clint shrugged in a forced sort of way. Which meant it clearly _was_ a big deal but Clint didn’t want to admit it for some reason.

 

Bucky considered this.

 

“Could you show me?” he asked, hesitantly. “I’ve looked up a couple of videos, but there’s a lot of two handed stuff, and I don’t know how to work around it. Please? I’d like to be able to talk to you, even in a crowded, noisy restaurant and without a phone in my face.”

 

Clint still didn’t really look at him, but a tentative, hopeful smile was growing on his face. _This is what he looks like when he didn’t expect to be seen._ “I guess we can get you a few basics. You pick anything up from the videos you watched? The alphabet, maybe?”

 

“I know nothing,” Bucky said.

 

“Baby signer huh?” Clint laughed a little. “Alright then. How about we start with your name?”

 

And so they did, Bucky making slow, clumsy handshapes with Clint’s guidance. Practicing and learning his own name (and Lucky’s, “It’s just one letter off!” Clint had said), and Clint’s. And then Steve’s. And then Clint had him bring up an alphabet chart and they messed around _fingerspelling_ various curse words and other silly stuff, until Steve poked his head through the door and said, “Geez, Buck, you going to bed any time soon?” And Bucky looked at the time and realized he and Clint had been talking for hours.

 

“Holy crap it’s late,” Bucky said.

 

“Holy fuck, it is,” Clint echoed from the screen. “I better let you go before my battery completely dies.”

 

Bucky chewed on his lip a second. “Text you tomorrow?”

 

“Sure thing,” Clint said. “I’m working again, but… yeah. I’ll see it, no problem.”

 

“Okay.” Bucky hesitated. “Night, Clint.”

 

Clint smiled at him. _This is what he looks like when he’s happy._ “Night, Bucky.” And he ended the call.

 

Bucky pocketed his phone and stood. Steve was giving him a strange look. “What’s that face for?” Bucky asked him.

 

Steve shook his head. “Nothin’, Buck. You just… you look happy. It’s good to see.”   

 

Bucky blinked. _Happy?_ Huh. He wasn’t sure. He’d forgotten what it felt like.

 

As they walked back into the house together, Bucky spoke up hesitantly. “Hey, Steve?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Do you think, maybe on our way back up, we could stop and see him again? Just for little while.”

 

Steve smiled brilliantly at him. “Sure, Buck. That’d be no problem at all.”

 

\-------

 

The next day, Bucky went out on the balcony again. It was a good place to escape the crowd; quiet, somehow removed from the rest of the house. Sam’s family was very welcoming, but Bucky would be happy to be back on the road tomorrow, heading home. _Going to see Clint again._  He ran his thumb over the darkened lock-screen of his phone, thinking. He watched the low, tree-covered mountains in the distance and wondered if Clint would like the view.

 

Clint; his soulmate. His mark-mate. His quantum-entangled life buddy. The idea wouldn’t settle in his head. The nature of soulmates still mostly eluded modern science, and every religion had a different answer for it. Everyone had one--some people had more than one--and everyone knew what happened when soulmates met each-other. But the why and the how? Those were still unanswered questions. People with shared Marks were linked, somehow, everyone knew that much. By God, or Fate, or Physics. But the details were fuzzy. Soul-marks weren’t magic spells. They didn’t guarantee a happy relationship. The world was full of stories against putting too much faith into a Mark; from Helen of Troy to Romeo and Juliet to Lizzie Borden. Hell, a Mark-pair weren’t always even romantic with each-other. There were platonic bonds, and people who just for whatever reason didn’t work out as a couple. Occasionally, Mark-Mates even ended up as rivals, or bitter enemies.

 

He didn’t know what Clint would be to him. He didn’t know what to expect, or if he had a right to expect anything at all.

 

A knock pulled his attention from his thoughts. Sam had come out onto the balcony and was giving him an odd look. “Hey,” he said, “mind if I join you?”

 

Bucky wasn’t feeling very social, but he appreciated Sam asking. He liked that about Sam; he always somehow knew when not to push. Bucky shrugged and nodded at the other chair.

 

Sam settled into the chair with a loud groan. “God, I’m getting old.”

 

“You’re not old,” Bucky said with a small grin. “Stevie had you up all night. Shoulda told him to go easy.”

 

Sam coughed in minor embarrassment. “You heard that, huh?”

 

“I think the whole _house_ heard it.”

 

“So that’s why Auntie Midge was trying to stare a hole in my head over breakfast this morning.”

 

Bucky chuckled quietly and looked down, playing idly with his phone to give his hand something to do. He was happy for Steve. He _was._ Sam was a good guy. Bucky couldn’t pin down why seeing them together made him feel so out-of-sorts. There was probably something wrong with him.

 

“You texting your boy more?” Sam interrupted his thoughts again, nodding at the phone.

 

“Uh.. no, he’s -- he’s at work right now. I don’t want to bother him too much.” Bucky fidgeted. “And he’s not really _my_ anything, not yet.”

 

Sam looked at him incredulously. “You talked to him for like four hours last night, man. We heard you laughing through the wall. Steve said he hadn’t seen you look that alive in years. I thought he was gonna start crying.”

 

Bucky hunched his shoulders. “It’s… probably the endorphins. The chemical stuff the Meeting triggers in your brain.”

 

“You really believe that?” Sam asked quietly.

 

Bucky didn’t know how to answer. He stared at the ground a while. “I don’t know… I just don’t want to get my hopes up.”

 

Sam studied him for a few moments. Bucky tried to ignore it, but he hated being stared at. He hunched his shoulders and fought the urge to pull his hood over his face.

 

“Why are you fighting this, Buck?” Sam asked. “You and him… look, even if you don’t believe in fate, or that Marks are anything but a weird quirk of the universe, I can tell just from what I saw on your face last night that whatever you’re starting to have with this guy is a good thing.”

 

“So far,” Bucky mumbled.

 

“And what’s the harm in seeing where it goes?” Sam asked. “I mean, if you’re scared--”

 

“I’m not scared.” Bucky rubbed his empty shoulder. It ached strangely. “I’m just. I don’t know if I’m good for a relationship right now.”

 

“Why not?”

 

Bucky gave him a flat look. Wasn’t it obvious? But Sam just lifted an eyebrow and waited for him to answer. He made an exasperated huff. “Look at me, Sam. I’m a goddamn tragedy. Washed out of the army, can’t work, just sit on my ass all day and freeload offa Steve--”

 

“You didn’t ‘wash out’, you were medically discharged,” Sam interrupted, sounding far too patient. “You’re in recovery after _losing a limb._ People don’t usually bounce back easily from that kind of thing. It takes time--”

 

“It’s been fucking long enough!” Bucky snapped. Then he winced, he didn’t mean to do that. He hunched his shoulders again. “My life is fucked. I don’t know what the hell to do with myself. The army was my only plan. I’m shit at school, shit at dealing with people, and everything I’d want to do needs two _goddamned hands_ to do it! I can’t hardly take care of myself anymore, I’m lucky I can even dress myself in the morning. It took me eight months just to figure out how to tie my own damn shoelaces.”

 

“Hey, _that_ is impressive. I sure as hell can’t tie my shoes one-handed.”

 

Bucky clenched his fist around his phone and stared out unseeing into the middle distance. He swallowed bitterly, tried to get his voice under control. “I can’t even hold him at night, Sam,” he whispered roughly. “How am I supposed to take care of him when I can barely take care of myself?”

 

Sam frowned at him. Again. Bucky ignored him, curled in on himself and pressed his phone to his forehead.

 

“Who says you have to take care of anybody?” Sam said eventually. “A relationship isn’t one person carrying the other. It’s about both of you carrying on together. Sharing the load. That’s kind of the point of the whole thing.”

 

“He doesn’t need any of my crap,” Bucky mumbled. “He’s got enough of his own, doesn’t need to deal with mine.”

 

Sam exhaled a sigh. “You and Steve, man, I swear. Both of you, stubborn fools killing themselves trying not to bleed on anybody. Are you sure you’re not actually brothers?”

 

Bucky’s mouth quirked. “Good as. But no, not by blood, and we never figured out how to adopt each-other.”

 

“Well,” Sam said, “blood or not, you _are_ gonna be my brother-in-law someday, and I hate seeing my family hurting. Especially when they don’t have to.” He reached over and clasped Bucky’s shoulder. The empty one. Bucky stared at him. “Don’t sabotage yourself,” Sam said intently. “You deserve to be happy. I know you don’t feel like that right now, but you do.”

 

“Sam?” Bucky was saved from their heart-to-heart by the arrival of Steve stepping onto the balcony. He had a toddler on his hip and looked unsettled about it. “Sam, your mom is--oh, hey Buck. You okay?”

 

Bucky nodded a little, looking away.

 

Steve looked too preoccupied to press him on it. “Sam,” he said, “your mom is looking for you. And she’s--she keeps handing me children.”

 

“I see that,” Sam said, bemused. He stood and went to give the little afro-puff’d girl a tickle. “Are you giving uncle Steve trouble, princess?” he said to her. The girl just hid her face in Steve’s side.

 

“I think your mom’s trying to tell me something,” Steve said, looking mildly panicked.

 

Sam solemnly patted him on the cheek. “She is just exploiting your good nature for babysitting services. Come on, let’s go see what she wants.” He put an arm around Steve’s shoulders to guide him along, and looked back at Bucky a moment. “Think about what I said, Buck. I mean it. You miss every shot you don’t take.”

 

Bucky watched them go, Sam’s arm around Steve and the baby clinging to Steve’s shirt. He got an uncertain twinge in his chest at the sight. He sat there a while, examining the feeling and trying to make sense of it. Then he held his phone up, snapped a picture of the mountains, and sent it to Clint.

 

_B: Thinking of you._

\-----------

 

Two hours northbound from Virginia, east of Philadelphia and halfway back home, Steve and Bucky looked warily up at a brown brick 4-story building. “You sure this is the right place?” Steve asked. 

 

Bucky texted Clint. 

 

_ B: Hey we’re outside I think?  _

 

Steve tapped his shoulder for his attention and pointed. Halfway up the building on the alley side was a satellite dish mounted outside a window. There was an arrow sticking out of it. 

 

_ C: Oh yeah I see you guys! Come on up I can’t believe you’re driving the east coast in a beetle  _

 

Bucky showed Steve the text. “It’s a classic!” Steve said, offended.  __

 

They scaled four sets of stairs to Clint’s apartment, and knocked, and waited. There was a brown stain on the carpet in the hall and Bucky tried very hard not to think about how it looked like a blood splatter. Steve frowned at it. 

 

There was the sound of a dog barking and a clatter. Then the door opened and there was Clint, beaming. “Hey!” he cried, and pulled Bucky into a hug. 

 

Bucky had not been prepared for a hug. He had no time to get over the shock, however, before he was released and Clint was shaking hands with Steve. 

 

He took the opportunity to look Clint over. He looked better than he had two days ago. The gash in his forehead was scabbing over and his hair was still all over the place, but Bucky got the feeling it just did that naturally. The jeans and purple t-shirt he wore fit him much better than the rumpled waiter’s uniform, and showed off a set of biceps Bucky was going to enjoy the hell out of staring at. His grey-green-blue eyes looked tired, but he was smiling easily and paying very close attention as Steve introduced himself and talked about how nice it was to finally meet Clint in person.  

 

His intent staring morphed slowly into a confused-looking frown as he let the two of them into the apartment. “Hang on, I can’t hear you,” he said, and then he waved at Lucky, made a few gestures, and the dog ran off. “I’ll get some coffee going,” Clint said. “Make yourselves at home.” 

 

Bucky looked around at the apartment. It was  _ tiny.  _ Smaller than Steve’s apartment back in Brooklyn. It was laid out like a long hallway, with the entry opening into the living room which in turn led to the open plan kitchen. There was a doorway in the wall next to the couch that Bucky assumed led to a bathroom and bedroom.

 

The clutter made the apartment feel even more crowded. There were random piles of  _ stuff  _ everywhere; discarded clothing, dog toys, random books and bits of mail that looked like they’d been used as coasters. There was a black and purple archery bow hung over the couch. Bucky went to examine it while Steve picked his way across the messy floor to find a place to sit. 

 

Lucky came back through the hallway door, carrying something in his mouth. He tromped over to Clint who took it and cooed praise at the dog. Then Clint slipped on his purple hearing aids, and Lucky came over to sniff at the newcomers. “Okay, I can hear now,” Clint announced. 

 

“Lucky got your aids for you?” Bucky asked, impressed. 

 

“Yeah,” Clint said as he tried to coax the coffee maker to life. “He’ll get my phone for me too if I tell him, or if it’s ringing. And he lets me know when there’s somebody at the door.” 

 

“Smart dog you got here,” Steve said, kneeling to give Lucky attention. “Where’d you get him trained?” 

 

“Nowhere, did it myself,” Clint said proudly. “He picked it up fast. I think he might’ve been a service dog in a past life.”  

 

They settled in with the coffee. Steve claimed a barstool from the kitchen, Bucky and the dog took the couch, and Clint shamelessly sat on the edge of the coffee table. “So I can see both of you,” Clint explained. “It’s easier when I can see your lip movements--no, don’t get up, Steve. I’m fine.”

 

Bucky took one sip of coffee and gagged. He shot Clint a disgusted look. “Christ, what is this, mud?”

 

“No, it’s caffeine,” Clint said. “Drink it fast enough and the taste won’t bother you.”   

 

Bucky took that as a challenge. He looked Clint straight in the eye and chugged the whole mug. Clint smirked at him. 

 

“So…” Steve cleared his throat, subtly pushed his mug away, and pointed at the bow hung over the couch. “Archery, huh?” 

 

“Yup,” Clint smiled proudly. “Don’t get to do it as often as I’d like anymore. Landlord doesn’t like me practicing on the roof.” Bucky remembered the arrow in the satellite dish, and thought that was probably reasonable. “But,” Clint said, “I try to get range time in every week at least.” 

 

“That’s a lot of dedication,” Steve said. “You do competitions or anything?” 

 

A strange, tight expression flickered across Clint’s face, there and gone in a blink. “Nah,” he said. “I just like it, you know?” He smiled disarmingly. 

 

_ This is what he looks like when he’s hiding something, _ Bucky thought. He didn’t think he had the right to push, though. Not yet. 

 

“Okay, my turn to ask a question,” Clint said. He pointed at Steve and Bucky in turn. “You two, tell me about your rad bromance.” 

 

Bucky hesitated. He didn’t really like talking about the past...it always felt like he was talking about a different person. He chewed on his lip, staring down into his empty mug. Steve noticed, and picked up the conversation thread. 

 

“Well, me and Buck are orphans,” he said. “Grew up in a group home in Brooklyn together.” 

 

“Really? You were in the system?” 

 

Steve nodded. “Since we were kids. We were lucky, didn’t get moved around like some other kids were.” 

 

“Steve was sick a lot,” Bucky put in, quietly. “Weren’t too many places that could handle his health issues.”  

 

“And Buck wouldn’t leave me,” Steve said, smiling. “Made himself a troublemaker, always getting into fights.” 

 

“You were the one getting in fights, punk. I just had to finish them for you.” 

 

Clint was looking at Bucky with a soft expression, something like pride in his smile. It made Bucky uncomfortable. He didn’t deserve to be looked at like that. He shifted in his seat, looking away. 

 

“Do uh, do you have family?” Steve said, clearly trying to keep the conversation going. 

 

Clint set his mug down, face going neutral. “Got a brother,” he said without inflection. “He’s an asshole, but that runs in the family. We don’t talk anymore.” 

 

Steve winced. “Sorry.” 

 

Clint waved him off. “It’s gonna come up. I like to pull the bandaid off all at once. So,” he counted off on his fingers. “Shitty childhood, misspent youth, distant family. Somehow I still manage to become a productive member of society. You know, if you count waiting tables at a Denny’s being productive.”  

 

Bucky felt his mouth twitch toward a grin. “More productive than sitting around collecting disability checks,” he said. Steve shot him a disappointed look. 

 

Abruptly, Clint pointed at Bucky. “We’re playing video games now.” And then he was up and setting up the battered games console attached to the TV. “Come on, Steve, you versus me and Bucky.” 

 

Steve took the sudden shift in stride, taking the controller Clint handed him with just an amused expression. “Two against one, huh? That seems fair.” 

 

“That’s right,” Clint said, “you’re going down.” He shooed the dog off the couch and sat down on Bucky’s left, close enough that their legs pressed together. Bucky felt his face grow hot.  

 

“I uh--” Bucky tried to protest as Clint handed him the controller. But Clint just nudged him and guided his hand. Bucky took the right side of the controller, and Clint took the left. 

 

“Don’t worry, we got this,” Clint said to him. He gave Bucky a small, secret little smile, and Bucky suddenly lost all thoughts but one. 

 

_ This is what he looks like when he looks at  _ **_you._ **

 

The game started up. They did poorly. But Clint was enthusiastic, and encouraging, and undaunted, and a constant warmth at Bucky’s side. Bucky didn’t like people touching him, not since the accident. But somehow with Clint it was okay. Maybe it was a Mark thing. Or maybe it was just that, with Clint, it didn’t feel so much like someone pushing their way into Bucky’s space as Clint pulling Bucky into his own. 

 

He felt himself relaxing, even laughing as their character jerked one way and another. Leaning into Clint to hear him murmur instructions and encouragement. Grinning at the smack-talk Clint and Steve threw at each-other. 

 

He didn’t even notice when Steve started letting them win. 

 

“Okay, I’m out,” Steve said after his fourth straight loss. He surrendered his controller to the coffee table. 

 

Clint cheered aloud. “Hey Barnes, bump me,” he said said, holding up his fist. Bucky had to put the controller down to do so, and Clint proceeded to lead him through some kind of complicated handshake. Bucky couldn’t help smiling. 

 

Steve stood and stretched unsubtly. “Wow, is it stuffy in here? I think I need some air.” He smirked. “I can take Lucky around the block if you like, Clint.” He nodded at Lucky, who seemed to be moping on the floor after being banished from the couch.

 

Clint hesitated, and Steve held up his hands. “I promise I won’t let him off his leash or let him eat or roll in anything gross. If you’re not okay with that, I understand--stranger walking off with your dog and everything. I’m just offering to give you two a little space.”

 

Bucky rolled his eyes at Steve, face coloring. He didn’t notice Clint looking at him.  “Jesus, Stevie.”

 

“What? I know when I’m third-wheeling.” 

 

Clint got up without saying anything, went over to crouch in front of Lucky. Lucky wagged his tail at Clint and watched Clint’s hands as he signed. Lucky licked Clint’s face and trotted over to get his leash...from under the couch. 

 

“You have him back in an hour, Steve.” Clint pointed at him seriously. “No chasing squirrels.”

 

Steve laughed, but he nodded and promised to be responsible. Bucky just watched in bewilderment from the couch. At least the dog seemed to be happy to get outside. 

 

After Steve left, Clint seemed suddenly nervous. He fidgeted. He crossed his arms over his chest, then uncrossed them, then stuck his hands in his pockets like he just didn’t know what to do with them. “So. Um.” 

 

Bucky studied him. “This is awkward, huh?” 

 

Clint scratched the back of his neck, chewing on his bottom lip. “Little bit.” He came over and dropped back onto the couch, on Bucky’s right this time, leaving space between them. Bucky watched him fidget, lean his elbows on his knees and tap his fingers together, casting around for something to say. 

 

He thought about  _ taking a shot.  _

 

He reached over and tugged lightly on Clint’s sleeve. “Let’s watch TV so we don’t have to worry about talking.” 

 

Clint blinked at him, and grinned. “That is an awesome idea.” 

 

So they did. They ended up watching some ridiculous mystery/crime show involving anthropomorphic animals. A few minutes in Bucky tugged on Clint’s sleeve again and pulled him over to Bucky’s side of the couch. Clint looked surprised, but almost uncontainably happy about it, and tucked up against Bucky’s side immediately, like he’d been wanting to do that all day. Bucky stopped paying attention to the television. 

 

Instead, he thought about how his arm fit across Clint’s shoulders, and how Clint’s dirty blonde hair tickled when it brushed against his skin, and how he wanted to feel it against his face. He noticed how warm Clint felt against him, and how their breathing had synced up without either of them really thinking about it. And he watched how Clint’s eyes moved as they tracked the subtitles on the screen, how he flicked his gaze up to Bucky every so often, and how he’d smile every time.  _ This is what he looks like when you hold him.  _

 

He thought about how it felt to feel happy. 

 

Clint took a deep breath, like he was bracing for something. He turned toward Bucky. “Hey. So...this might be a little forward, but... ” He hesitantly reached up for Bucky’s hand, hooking his pinky around Bucky’s index finger. Color spread across his cheeks, and he looked up at Bucky, and Bucky found himself captivated by the light reflecting in Clint’s eyes. 

 

_ So that’s why they call it butterflies…  _

 

“Can I kiss you?” Clint asked. 

 

And Bucky felt weightless. He felt himself smiling, unable to stop. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Please?”    

 

Clint smiled, and it reminded Bucky of a sunrise cresting over the ocean.  _ This is what he looks like when…  _

 

It wasn’t the best of first kisses. Just a simple press of lips against each-other. Then Clint tilted his head just so, and Bucky parted his lips a bit and then… it was right. Like puzzle pieces fitting together. The second kiss was better. And the third. Then somehow Clint was on his lap and Bucky lost track of things for a while, lost in the feeling. 

 

He was aware, in a distant fuzzy way, of his hand being clasped in Clint’s and pressed against Clint’s chest, held there.  _ His Mark.  _ He pulled back slowly and looked up at Clint. 

 

“You want to see it?” Clint asked, his voice a little rough. 

 

“If you want to show me,” Bucky answered. 

 

Clint bit a kiss-swollen lip. He pulled his shirt up -- very carefully, Bucky noted -- and over his head, and off, and let Bucky look at him. 

 

Clint was well-built; obvious strength in his shoulders, chest and arms. But what drew Bucky’s eye first was not the corded muscle or the trail of light hair that led down Clint’s stomach, but the Mark on his chest; dusky red-brown, like a coffee stain. Bucky reached up hesitantly and looked at Clint, silently asking permission. Clint took his hand and placed it, gently, over the Words written out in skin-pigment: 

 

_ Oh my god, you’re beautiful.  _

 

They were right over Clint’s heart. Bucky could feel the steady beating beneath his fingertips. He exhaled a trembling breath. Touching someone’s Mark was incredibly intimate, like touching a piece of their soul. And Clint… Clint was letting him  _ touch.  _ Bucky spread his hand out and covered the Mark protectively. “I’m sorry you can’t see mine,” he said.

 

“It’s okay,” Clint said. “I can see  _ you _ . That’s good enough for me.” Bucky looked up at him. Clint looked contemplative. He reached over and pushed a bit of Bucky’s hair back from his face, his touch sending the butterflies in Bucky’s chest dancing. “Kinda never thought I’d have a soulmate,” Clint said, quietly.     

 

Bucky frowned at him. “Why not? Everyone does.” 

 

Clint shrugged. “It sounded too good to be true. Maybe it happened to  _ other  _ people but not, you know, me.” 

 

“I thought I missed my chance when I lost my arm,” Bucky admitted. He felt Clint’s fingers on his face like little sparks of lightning. “Worried that it wouldn’t work anymore. 

 

“Well we sure buried that theory, huh?” Clint smiled. Bucky pulled him down and kissed him again. 

 

They lost track of time. When Steve finally came back they were still tangled up together on the couch, Bucky on his back and Clint lain out on his chest. Bucky wasn’t entirely sure how they had ended up that way. 

 

“Really, guys?” Steve said, unimpressed, “You couldn’t even make it to the bedroom?” Lucky bounded in and went straight for his water bowl. He certainly didn’t care what his master had got up to while he was gone. “People have to sit on that couch, you know.” 

 

“Pants’re still on, Steve,” Bucky deadpanned. Clint grumbled incoherently into Bucky’s chest and showed no intent to move. 

 

Steve put his hands on his hips, looking somewhere between amused and fond. “Well as much as I hate to break up the party, we gotta get on the road if we want to make it home by a decent hour.” 

 

Bucky sighed. He ran his hand through Clint’s tousled hair and shook him gently. “Hey. Get up.”  

 

“No,” Clint pouted, sounding half asleep, “stay. Stay the night. Steve can come pick you up in a week.” 

 

Bucky bit his lip around a grin so wide he felt like his face was going to crack open, but he shook his head. “I want to, but I gotta go home. I gotta go be a test dummy for robot arms.” Clint looked up at him, very confused.

 

“You decided, then?” Steve said. 

 

He nodded, avoiding eye contact and busying his hand with tracing Clint’s hairline. “Yeah…I’m not doing anything else with my time. I might as well.”  _ Take the shot, right?  _

 

“That’s great, Buck,” Steve smiled at him proudly. 

 

“You didn’t tell me about a robot arm thing,” Clint frowned at him. “How dare you keep something that cool from me.” 

 

He laughed. “I’ll text you about it on the road.” He paused. “Or maybe tomorrow. You look exhausted.” 

 

“You’re comfortable,” Clint said, still making no attempt to move. “Skype me tomorrow?” 

 

“Sure,” he said. Clint still did not move. Bucky grinned and shoved at Clint’s shoulder. “I will, I promise. You gonna let me up?” 

 

Clint grumbled resignedly, half-rolled half-fell off of Bucky right onto the floor. He seemed undisturbed by this. “Let me walk you to your car,” he said, from the floor. 

 

“Okay,” Bucky laughed. “But you gotta put your shirt on first.” 

 

They managed to get down the stairs. Clint seemed to be soaking up as much physical contact as he could get, holding onto Bucky’s hand or arm or shoulder the whole way, depending on how they had to maneuver to get down the stairs. They kissed again at the car, until Steve honked the horn at them. 

 

Bucky watched Clint in the mirror as they drove off, until he went out of sight. Steve was nice enough not to poke fun at him, to let him slump in the seat and think quietly. He rubbed his thumb over his bottom lip, trying to hold on to the memory.  

 

Ten minutes later, Clint sent him a text asking him how creepy it would be to sleep on the couch because it still smelled like Bucky. 

 

Okay. Maybe they were being a little intense.

 

“So, hey Buck,” Steve said slyly. “How do you feel about hitting the Denny’s before we leave town, once more for old time’s sake?”

 

“Steven Rogers I will get out of this car and walk, I swear to god,” Bucky grumbled reflexively. Then he bolted upright. “Holy shit! I just realized.” He turned to Steve with a manic grin slowly splitting across his face. “I  _ never have to go to a Denny’s, ever again.  _ **_Never!_ ** _ ”  _

 

Steve cracked up laughing. 

 

When they got back to the apartment, Bucky snapped a picture of the view from Steve’s living room; New York City, lit up in the night. And he sent it to Clint. 

 

_ B: I miss you already.  _

  
  


\---------

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

  
  


“I still cannot believe that Tony Stark is in your apartment.” 

 

“You have lived here for two years, it’s  _ our _ apartment,” said Steve, from the countertop.  

 

Bucky did not even bother arguing with him. He was too busy being incredibly self-conscious. He sat half-naked in Steve’s kitchen while a woman named Dr. Cho--who had insisted Bucky call her “Helen”-- attached electrodes to his chest, and Tony Stark stood nearby doing something on a tablet and messing with the new prosthetic that lay on the table. The  _ device _ , in Bucky’s opinion, looked less like an arm and more like some skeletal monstrosity drowned in wires.      

 

“So this is a baby model,” Stark said. “Training wheels, not the final product. It’s just to get you used to the functionality.” 

 

“We’ll have several testing sessions over the next few months,” Dr. Cho said. “The goal is to develop something we can leave with you to test over long-term wear. But we’re...not quite there yet.”

 

“Works in progress,” Stark mumbled, and brought the arm over. 

 

Bucky winced as they strapped it onto him. It felt… unnatural, and heavy, and it pinched in weird places. He flexed his shoulder, grimacing. “God, that’s weird.” 

 

“It will be, at first,” Dr. Cho said. She made a few adjustments to the fit. “Since you’ve never worn a prosthetic before, we’re especially interested in how you adjust to these models. Most of our other testers have experience with market-available prosthetics, so their feedback is full of comparisons. You get to be our blank slate.” She smiled and patted him on the back. 

 

_ You mean the guinea pig, _ Bucky thought, but kept it behind his teeth. He did sign up for this after all. He knew it was a good thing he was going, that it would help a lot of people in the long run. He wanted to do good. He just hated being fussed over, he always had.    

 

“Alright, let’s get you started with the basics,” Dr Cho said.  

 

They ran him through an instructional program that felt almost like a video game, then through some simple movements. Bucky had trouble getting used to it. It wasn't like moving a real arm. He had to use what muscles he had left in entirely different ways. It was hard work, and he found himself cursing under his breath whenever he particularly struggled. 

 

"You're actually doing very well here," Dr Cho--Helen-- said to him, after he failed to pick up a simple round ball. "You're going from only occasional use of your shoulder and pectoral muscles, to using them in very complex actions. We didn't expect this kind of progress right away." 

 

"Running before you can crawl," Stark grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. 

 

Bucky grit his teeth and tried again.

  
  


Some time later, Bucky’s phone started buzzing over in the living room. Steve checked it for him, since he was closer. “Hey, Clint’s calling you.” 

 

Bucky looked up at the scientists. “Can I--” 

 

Stark rolled his eyes at him. “Go, go talk to your boyfriend. We’ll crunch some data over here.” 

 

Bucky couldn’t contain his grin as he took the phone from Steve, not even Steve’s teasing smirk could phase him. He and Clint had been talking over Skype and Videophone for almost three weeks, and texting every day. It was usually silly stuff, movies or video games, how their day had gone or which celebrity they’d hook up with if given the chance. And Clint was still teaching him sign language. Bucky found it a lot less daunting than he had at first, especially with Clint teaching him and showing him all the fun dirty signs. He couldn’t hold a conversation yet, unless it was about sex (thanks to Clint he knew more signs for “fuck” than he knew color signs), but they were getting there. Talking to Clint had become the highlight of Bucky’s days.

 

Bucky connected the Videophone app and the picture blinked in to show Clint grinning at the screen. “Morning, Sunshine,” he said. “Oh hey, you got your robo-arm on, cool!”   

 

Bucky’s face twisted in amusement. Clint’s normally blonde hair was now a vibrant fuchsia. “Yeah, I’m all cyborg and shit.” Then he pointed at Clint’s image and carefully signed,  **“Your hair is purple.”**

 

**“Good job, Bucky,”** Clint signed back, looking pleased. Clint signed Bucky’s name by making a B and moving it in a little circular motion around his heart. Bucky didn’t really know what that meant, but it made him feel nice, like Clint calling him something special. Even if it was just his name. 

 

“They let you go to  **work** like that?” He said aloud, signing  _ work  _ as he said it--concurrency, he’d found, was an easy way for him to practice and memorize his sign language vocabulary--, and then paused. “Hey wait a sec…”   _ Work  _ was a two-handed sign. Normally Bucky just moved his right hand in the proper motion and Clint assured him he understood it, but now Bucky --at least temporarily-- had a left hand too, so maybe… 

 

Bucky moved the arm and hand and made the sign again, almost properly. Bucky smiled to himself. 

 

“Nice. Look at you go!” Clint smiled at him encouragingly. 

 

Bucky opened and closed the hand and slowly tested a few other two-handed signs. “Can’t really make most of the handshapes,” he said. “But… yeah.” He smiled at Clint. “It’s a little less awkward than tapping my shoulder.” 

 

“And that’s still the training wheels arm, right?” 

 

Bucky nodded. “Prototype. That’s also why it looks like...” he gestured demonstratively with his flesh hand. 

 

“You do look a little bit like a Terminator there,” Clint teased. 

 

“I never got around to seeing those movies...” 

 

“What?!” Clint exclaimed. “You’re kidding. Dude, we are so watching that together later on. I’ll set up a stream.” 

 

Bucky smiled. “Skype date?” 

 

“Hell yeah.” Clint smiled back at him fondly. “Hey, I gotta head off to work, just wanted to say hi to you real fast before I threw myself to the weekend wolves.” 

 

Warmth grew in Bucky’s chest at that. Clint had called him up just to see him. No other reason. “So, you are going in to work with purple hair,” he said.  

 

Clint made a dismissive gesture. “It’s fine. Katie dyed her hair red, white and blue for July fourth and nobody cared. The worst I’ll do is give old Mrs. Fitzgerald a heart attack and then I’ll be free of her!” 

 

Bucky laughed. “Hey, maybe don’t try to give old ladies heart attacks, huh? You get in enough trouble as it is.” 

 

“No promises,” Clint said sweetly and blew a kiss at the screen. “I’ll text you later.” 

 

“Bye,” Bucky said, and the call ended. 

 

“Your soulmate’s deaf?” Stark said without any preamble. 

 

Bucky turned and blinked in confusion. He had sort of forgotten about the other people still in the room. “Uh, well technically he’s hard of hearing … why?” 

 

Two laptops and a large sheet of paper covered in technical scribbling had somehow manifested on Steve’s kitchen table. Helen was focused very intently on one laptop screen while she scribbled on the paper with one hand. Stark was looking at him with a kind of manic glint in his eye. “You should’ve mentioned! That’s a completely--... You were using sign language to talk to him, right?” Bucky nodded and Stark continued, pointing at him and gesturing widely. “Manual dexterity. You’ll need manual dexterity, fine motor control, concurrent motions. This is a wholly-- we didn’t anticipate that kind of need. See? This is what you’re here for.” 

 

He snatched up a tablet and turned abruptly to Helen. They immediately started talking over each-other. “Six weeks minimum to ready a new prototype.”

 

“I’m not sure. Even with re-innervation--” 

 

“No, we don’t have to. Remember that study with the paraplegic?”

 

“You’re thinking  _ neural--?”  _

 

“Yes! I’ve been working with Ru and her people in Tokyo on something for psych therapy applications, but  _ this  _ can--...” 

 

Bucky looked flatly over at Steve. Steve smothered laughter and shrugged at him. Bucky rolled his eyes. 

 

“Hey, Barnes!” Stark called over. “How do you feel about a haircut?”  

 

\-------

  
  


“They want you to what?” Clint’s image in the corner of the program window looked scandalized. “Aww, but your hair!” 

 

“They said it’s gonna read my brain waves.” Bucky paused and laughed at the movie they were watching. "You didn't tell me how campy this shit was." 

 

"It's not supposed to be campy," Clint said. "The CGI doesn't age well, is all. God, you're gonna look weird with no hair. Like a skinhead or something,  _ ew _ ." 

 

"Or a cancer patient," Bucky said dryly. "One arm and all."

 

"Wow that's even worse, are you trying to make me depressed?” 

 

Bucky grinned at him. "You can buy me a hat if you don't like it. Steve already got me half a dozen." 

 

"I'll get you a wig. I bet you look good as a redhead." 

 

Bucky hummed noncommittally. Then Clint scratched his face, his hand coming into the frame for a second, and Bucky did a double-take. “Whoa, what’d you do to your wrist?” 

 

“Huh?” Clint looked at his wrapped-up hand. “Oh uh, burned myself at work. No biggie.” He put on a flashy  _ he’s hiding something _ smile and stuck the hand behind his head. 

 

Bucky peered at him. “Clint, you don’t put an ace bandage on a burn.” 

 

“I fell,” he said smoothly. “That’s how it happened. I tripped and dropped a whole bowl of soup down my arm. Man, the customer was  _ pissed. _ ”

 

Bucky chewed his lip warily. He didn't really believe Clint's story, but he didn't want to push him. Still... "You know you can talk to me about stuff, yeah? We're soulmates, I'm not gonna judge." 

 

Clint snorted. "Don't worry dad, the bullies at school aren't beating me up. I really did fall and hurt myself like an idiot. I told you, I'm accident prone. Ask Kate, she rubs it in my face all the time." 

 

"Okay, okay," Bucky said, rolling his eyes. He decided to drop the obviously touchy subject for now. "So when can I see you again?" he asked instead.

Clint didn't answer right away, stalking by taking a pull of his beer, which put Bucky on edge. "My schedules kind of insane and my boss is an asshole," Clint said, not looking at him. "But if you don't mind hanging out in the most boring small town on the east coast... Didn't you say Steve was headed south again? He could drop you off." 

 

Bucky shook his head. "He's taking a plane this time, won't work."

 

"Damn," Clint cursed and ran a hand through his hair. Bucky stomach twisted. Did Clint not want to see him? Had he read things wrong? He thought they'd been... He looked away from the screen and rubbed at the ache on his shoulder.

"Hey," Clint said, very gently, which pulled bucks attention back. "I'll talk to my boss okay? See if I can swing a few days. Middle of the week thing." 

 

Bucky bit his lip and nodded. "Okay. Let me know when?" 

 

"Sure," Clint smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

 

\-------

 

Clint pushed through into the kitchen at work, saw Kate hyperventilating in a corner, and had a weird sense of reverse deja-vu. Wasn’t  _ he  _ supposed to be the one freaking out on the floor? This wasn’t right. He walked over and ducked into Kate’s field of vision. “Kate? Katie, hey, what’s wrong?” 

 

She stared at him in a wide-eyed manic expression and started signing in quick, jerky movements  **“Clint! Oh my god. Clint what do I do help me!”**

 

**“What?”** he signed back. 

 

**“My soulmate!”** Kate glanced towards the door.  **“They’re out there and they talked to me and my words! My** **_words!_ ** **They--”** Then she just kind of shook her hands in a flailing gesture. 

 

Clint grabbed her hands to still them and looked into her eyes. “Katie! Breathe,” he said aloud. “Come on, breathe with me.” And he breathed in, slowly, through the nose. Then out again. In and out, until Katie copied him, matched his breathing and started calming down a little. 

 

“Okay.” Clint released her hands and went back to signing.  **“What’s the problem?”**

 

Kate blushed. Looked at the door then back at him, then at the ground. Bit her lip. Got this weird kind of half-panicked, half-shocked expression. She signed,  **“it’s a GIRL.”**

 

Clint...tilted his head.  **“I didn’t know that was a problem?”** he signed unsurely. 

 

She looked away, face pinched and frowning.  **“Well. No, but… but I didn’t THINK it would be a girl.”** she signed.  **“I didn’t… I thought it would be a boy. I didn’t expect a girl. Clint what do I do?”**

 

He squeezed her shoulder encouragingly for a moment.  **“Katie. Chill. I know this feels like you’re having a sexual identity crisis or something, but nobody’s saying you have to fuck her right now in the dining room.”** She made a face at his vulgarity. “I mean,” he winced,   **“Look, just start with TALKING to her. Take it slow. You’ll be okay. You got this.”**

 

She took a deep breath, still looking unsure. 

 

**“You want me to pick up the table?”** he asked. 

 

She shook her head. **“No. I’m fine. I** **_got_ ** **this.”**

 

She nodded to herself. Stood up and squared her shoulders and walked back to the door. Just before exiting she hesitated and looked back at him. He gave her a thumbs up. She smiled, and went out. 

 

He went back to work. A few minutes later he spotted her over by a table filled with college-age kids, and a girl with a wild head of dark ringlets was grinning up at Katie like a cheshire cat. Kate was blushing red as a tomato. Clint grinned, and subtly took a picture with his phone. He sent it to Bucky. 

  
  
  


On the way home, he got attacked again. Luckily there was only one guy this time, and Clint was able to run him off without any new injuries he’d have to explain away. The only casualty was his favorite shirt. This was getting annoyingly routine. 

 

\------

 

“Her name is literally America,” he gleefully told Bucky over Skype later. “So you are now officially no longer the only person I know with a weird name.” 

 

Bucky frowned at him through the screen. “What’s wrong with my name?” 

 

“Nothing, Mister President,” Clint teased. Bucky rolled his eyes at him. Clint set his chin in his hand and smiled sweetly. “So what’s new with you, hot stuff?” 

 

Bucky  _ almost _ smiled, then he looked away rubbed his shoulder.  _ Uh oh.  _ Something was wrong. 

 

“You okay?” He prompted softly. 

 

Bucky rubbed at his mouth. Sometimes it took him a bit to get his words out. Clint never minded. He was more than happy to just sit with Bucky’s call open in one corner of the screen while he watched Youtube or browsed the internet. Of course, he’d prefer Bucky to be  _ there,  _ physically, sitting next to him, but Clint took what he could get. Finally Bucky sighed and looked back up at the screen. “Remember about Steve taking that trip south for work?” He said. 

 

Clint nodded. “He’s still down there, right?” 

 

Bucky nodded and looked away again a moment. “Well he just texted me yesterday. Turns out Sam was down there too, working. So they got to spend some time together.” 

 

“That’s good, yeah?” Clint asked. 

 

Bucky chewed his lip. “Steve proposed.” 

 

Clint rose his eyebrows in surprise. “Really? Wow, that’s awesome! Finally, huh?” Bucky smiled, but didn’t look happy. “What, you can’t tell me Sam said  _ no. _ ” 

 

“Oh, no,” Bucky said. “He said yes and then they spent an entire weekend naked in a hotel room, according to Steve.” 

 

Clint laughed. He sobered quick, though. Something was clearly bothering Bucky about the situation. “So, what’s up? What’s wrong?” 

 

Bucky seemed to think about it. “I think I’m jealous,” he said. 

 

“You know Steve’s not gonna just ditch you right?” 

 

“I know.” Bucky rubbed at his shoulder again. It was his worst, most obvious tell. Clint wasn’t sure Bucky even realized when he was doing it. “It’s not… it’s not that.” 

 

“What then?” 

 

Bucky took a breath, then pushed his words out all at once. “I miss you.” 

 

Clint felt suddenly hollow. Long practice kept it from showing on his face--he hoped--but he suddenly wanted to run; away or towards Bucky, he wasn’t sure. He rubbed his mouth, searching for words. 

 

The truth was… Clint wanted more than anything to leave his house right now, drive north and drop himself on Bucky’s doorstep. But he couldn’t. 

 

The terms of his parole were pretty lenient, really. He could live where he wanted, work where he wanted. He only had to check in by phone every week, in person every other week. No restrictions on how he could spend his time. But he couldn’t travel, couldn’t leave the state. He couldn’t even leave the county without letting Coulson know ahead of time. Going up to Brooklyn would definitely be a terms violation.  

 

And he knew Bucky didn’t drive, not since his accident. They’d had that discussion one quiet night, when Clint had a late shift and Bucky couldn’t sleep. Bucky had told him about what happened, about the panic attacks he’d get sometimes just being on the road, or hearing rain. And Clint… Clint had opened up about his father. About the drinking, and the beatings, and how he’d lost his hearing. But he hadn’t told Bucky about the rest of it, about Barney and Trick and the carnies. He didn’t know about Clint’s past. He didn’t know Clint was on parole. He didn’t know that Clint had ever been arrested at all. 

 

Was Clint about to tell him, though? Absolutely fucking not.

 

But he had to tell him  _ something _ . He couldn't leave him hurting like this. He took a shaking breath, looked up and met Bucky’s eyes. "I want to see you," he said. "I do. I miss you too, so much it --" He stopped, swallowed. "I'm working on it okay? I promise."

"Said that last time," Bucky said without looking at him. 

 

"I know, and I'm the asshole here. I'm sorry. It's not that I don't wanna see you, or I don't like you any more--" 

 

Bucky rolled his eyes and interrupted him. "Okay, okay. I believe you." He smirked, weakly. "I guess I'm just being kind of clingy here." 

 

Clint shook his head. "It's okay. Don't-- I'm the fuck up in this relationship, not you." 

 

Bucky smiled at him. "No you're not." 

 

Clint couldn't meet his eyes after that.  _ You have no idea... _ But then Bucky changed the subject and they moved on. 

 

Maybe if Clint asked Colson  _ really _ nicely, he could get special permission to head up for a weekend. Or maybe he'd just sneak up. He'd spent most of his adolescence sneaking around places, he knew what to do. He'd just have to be smart about it. 

 

He'd figure something out.

  
  


\----------

  
  


“You could’ve mentioned it earlier, is all I’m saying,” Stark reiterated as he and Helen helped Bucky strap the new test arm on. “I mean, it’s a need we hadn’t anticipated and that is what you’re here for, testing needs. Imagine how many accessibility options we can open with this!”

 

Bucky kept his eyes downcast, feeling vaguely chastened. He rolled his shoulder to settle the prosthetic. “This feels a lot heavier than the last one,” he said.   

 

“It is,” said Helen. “We’re working on it. This is still a very early prototype. The extra weight comes from the increase in articulation points in the hand as well as all the electrical parts necessary for fine control.”

 

“Your grip strength is going to be a lot weaker with this model,” Stark put in. “Trade-off. We’re working on handling that without making the arm too heavy to wear or too difficult to control.” 

 

Helen was tapping at her tablet again. “The instructional programme for this model is more in-depth and targeted than the last. More fine motor control.” 

 

“Where’s the sensors?” Bucky asked. They hadn’t stuck anything to his chest yet. 

 

“Getting there,” Stark said. He lifted some kind of skull-cap looking headband… thing… from the case laid on the table. “This is why we had to have you shave your head.” 

 

Bucky ran his flesh hand over the top of his skull self-consciously. The bare buzz-cut made him feel naked. 

 

Stark pointed to the underside of the weird hat thing, where Bucky could see small circles of dark material. “These are the sensors. But they don’t read muscular activity, these ones record  _ neural  _ activity from your brain. You still won’t have perfect control--for that we’d need to get into surgery options--but we’re hoping it’ll give you the kind of responsiveness you’ll need to use your hands for communication.”

 

“Neural implants are definitely not ready for human trials,” Helen commented distractedly as Stark set the sensor-hat on Bucky’s head and hooked everything up. “Okay. Switching the power on. You might experience a … sensation.” 

 

Bucky had a second to wonder what she meant by  _ sensation  _ before suddenly all his muscles from shoulder to jaw tensed up, and a weird  _ buzzing  _ feeling surrounded his head. It was  _ all around _ ,  _ everywhere, _ from the crown of his head to behind his eyes and even inside his ears. “Oh god,” he said. “It feels like my head is full of bees.”  

 

Helen hummed and tapped at her tablet. The sensation faded a little a little and Bucky felt himself sagging. Stark adjusted a connection and Bucky winced at the jolt it sent through his shoulder. “Sorry, buddy,” Stark said, hand on his shoulder. “Okay, right… there. That better?” 

 

Bucky blinked. He stretched his neck and shoulder testingly, and nodded. “Better. Doesn’t  _ hurt  _ but it’s-- it feels weird.” 

 

Helen mumbled to herself. “Hmm. Let’s adjust …” and then it was all technical babble that Bucky couldn’t follow. 

 

As Stark and Helen talked over him and adjusted wires, Bucky looked down at the metal hand that was strapped to him and hooked up to his brain. It looked even more skeletal, more robotic than the last one had; all sharp edges and raw metal. He tried to move it. 

 

He was fairly surprised when it did, easier and smoother than the last model. He lifted the hand, raised the forearm and turned it back and forth, listening to the whine of the servo-motors. It was so easy. On the last model he’d had to concentrate to get each piece of the arm to move at all. This felt… “It almost feels real,” he said, wondering. 

 

“That’s the goal,” Helen said. She was watching him with a small smile on her face. “We want the arm to feel as close to a natural limb as possible. As it is, you’re still expending a lot of mental energy to move it, and it will take practice and effort to move more than one articulation point at a time. But eventually we want every motion to be entirely subconscious. Natural.”

 

They went through the standard-by-now exercises, starting with full arm movements, then smaller motions that controlled each part of the arm individually. Then they moved to the hand. First they worked on the hand as a whole, and then manipulating individual fingers, and finally groups of fingers together in different configurations. As Bucky slowly signed his way through the alphabet he found himself grinning excitedly. He couldn’t wait to show Clint.  

 

\---------

 

Clint was on the roof again, hood pulled up against the rain and bow set across his thighs, keeping watch on the neighborhood. He was feeling a bit like a gargoyle. If this kept up much longer he’d have to invest in a black cape and night-goggles or something. 

 

Tim, who lived on the second floor and whose tires had been slashed two days ago, climbed up beside him and handed him a mug of warm soup. Clint mumbled his thanks. 

 

They stared out at the rain-spattered streets a while before Tim spoke up hesitantly. “Yo… maybe we should call the police or something.” 

 

Clint rolled the warm mug between his hands. In recent weeks, the Hoodie Gang (yes, Clint was still calling them that) had taken to some kind of urban guerilla warfare--trash cans knocked over, windows broken in the night, peoples’ cars getting vandalized. No one ever saw the men in the act, usually happening in the dead of night. The whole building was on edge. The gang had even started hitting other apartment complexes on the block, one of which actually  _ had _ called in the police, to absolutely no avail. A single squad car had shown up, taken a few notes, and driven off. 

 

Clint didn’t really want to deal with cops, especially ones that didn’t take their job seriously. Or who took the  _ wrong _ parts of it seriously. He hunched his shoulders, thinking. Rosa and her eldest were undocumented. Luke, who lived next door to her, was always in trouble for being big and black and not taking anyone’s shit. Clint himself was a deaf guy with a criminal record. Angie down the hall had a goddamn pot plant in her kitchen garden, right next to the basil and oregano. 

 

Giving the police an excuse to poke around the building felt like a bad idea. 

 

He was brought out of his thoughts by his phone buzzing in his back pocket. He checked it and saw a text from Bucky. 

 

_ B: Hey, you free?  _

_ C: Y whats up?  _

_ B: Want to show you something _

 

Clint held up his phone. “Gotta take a call. Hold down the fort?” Tim nodded absently, and Clint clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. Tim was a good guy. Maybe if  _ he  _ called the cops in, they’d listen. 

 

Clint went back down to his apartment and set up his laptop on the coffee table. Lucky protested getting nudged off the couch again by sneezing in his face. 

 

“Ugh, thanks buddy,” Clint grumbled, wiping his face with his sleeve. “Come on, I don’t need a cold on top of everything else.” He ran his hands through his wet hair in a vain attempt to get it under control and waited for Skype to load up. “Stupid RAM-hog program,” he grumbled.

 

Finally he connected. Bucky’s message popped up and the image flicked on, and Clint could only stare in shock. “Holy crap, what the hell?” 

 

Bucky laughed at him. “Hey to you, too. How ‘Terminator’ do I look this time?” 

 

Clint took the sight in; Bucky’s shaved head, the headpiece trailing wires like cybernetic entrails, the skeletal mechanics of the arm all bright metal and naked circuit boards, and the long spindly fingers on the hand. “I think we’ve actually moved into another genre here. Techno-horror.” 

 

“Yeah it’s a little scary right now. They said they’re gonna work on that after all the mechanics of it are settled.”  Bucky smiled, and God, he looked so  _ happy.  _ Clint loved seeing him like this. He had one of those faces that could just lit up a room. “Hey,” Bucky said, “check this out.” And then he signed,  **“You look nice today,”** with  _ both hands,  _ flesh and mechanical working together. 

 

“Whoa…” Clint stared. “That is  _ awesome.  _ Do it again?” 

 

Bucky grinned a little slyly at him.  **“When you fell from Heaven, did it hurt?”** he signed. 

 

Clint laughed. He was speechless. Sure, the metal hand was still jerky and stiff and obviously robotic but it  _ moved.  _ It moved along with Bucky’s flesh hand almost seamlessly. And that was  _ Bucky  _ doing that; his effort, his practice and concentration.  **“You’re beautiful,”** Clint signed to him, smiling in wonder. 

 

Bucky looked down and his face colored. Clint was struck, not for the first time, by just how gone he was for this man. Clint was certain he must’ve cheated the system somehow. There wasn’t any way he deserved to have someone like Bucky. He reached out and touched Bucky’s image on the screen, aching from the distance between them. 

 

Then Bucky raised his left, mechanical hand again, and Clint forgot how to breathe. Bucky was signing  **_“I love you.”_ **

 

Clint covered his mouth with his hand, not trusting himself to speak. He suddenly felt every mile between them and wanted nothing more than to fold Bucky up in his arms and kiss him senseless. He missed him so badly. And Bucky’d said it like  _ that…  _

 

He inhaled unsteadily, looked up at smiled brightly at Bucky, who was starting to look nervous. “I love you, too,” he breathed out, feeling something settle.  _ This  _ was what he wanted.  

 

Bucky’s face lit up like a sunrise. They stared at each-other a while; a pair of love-sick fools. 

 

And then, because Clint just couldn’t help himself, he nodded suggestively at the prosthetic. “So, you think you can get a vibration setting installed in that thing? Because I’ve been thinking…”

 

Bucky gave him an exasperated look and flipped him off, with the mechanical hand. Clint felt so proud of him.   

\-------

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

The rain came suddenly. One minute the skies were calm, the next water was coming down in sheets and Bucky was soaked straight through his clothes. It was so loud on his helmet that he couldn’t hear the bike’s engine. Between the rain and the darkness he could hardly see the road in front of him. He should pull over, wait it out. But it was already so late, and these kinds of storms left as quickly as they came. It would just be a minute or two…

 

This late at night he had the road to himself. Bucky told himself it would be fine, even as he felt the dread rise bile up his throat. Recklessly he gunned the engine, drowning out the voice in his head that screamed for him to stop.

 

He was alone. The road was empty. Until, quite suddenly, it wasn’t.

 

Bucky never remembered the impact. Only the aftermath, the agony, the sick smell of blood mixed with gasoline and petrichor. The mangled horror of his arm all tangled in the axle of the car (empty, abandoned in the middle of the road, they never found the driver). The hours and _hours_ alone…

 

Trapped. He was trapped and no one was coming for him.

 

_It hurts. Oh god it hurts. His whole left side is agony. His arm… he can’t look. He retches. He is alone and no one is coming. He is bleeding out, going into shock, going to die on the asphalt._

 

_“Steve...”_

 

_He knows he is delirious, knows this is a dream. But through the rain he sees blonde hair. Broad shoulders. He almost thinks he can hear laughter._

 

_“Steve! Help me!”_

 

_Steve is smiling, but not at him. His arm is around a dark man in a red jacket, head thrown back in laughter._

 

_They walk past him without a glance._

 

_“Steve! Steve, don’t leave me here! Don’t leave me alone…”_

 

_He can’t cry out. Doesn’t have the breath. Can barely think through the pain and blood loss. He reaches with his good hand but they leave him. They leave him and he’s alone and trapped and scared and he’s going to die here …_

 

“Bucky!”

 

He woke up.

 

Steve was looking at him from above, face pinched in concern. “Hey, you okay? You were screaming in your sleep.”

 

“I …” his jaw worked uselessly. The panic of the dream still clung to him and _god_ his arm still _hurt,_ it _hurt._ “I’m…” he choked and suddenly he was in Steve’s arms.

 

“Hey, it’s okay Buck,” Steve said, “it’s okay. Geez, you’re all tensed up. No wonder you freaked out. Come here.”

 

Steve’s strong hands worked at his empty shoulder, pushing and kneading out muscles knotted so tightly it felt like metal under his skin. _Phantom pains._ He hadn’t had them in forever. But knowing what it was didn’t stop it from _hurting._

 

“You wanna talk about it?” Steve asked quietly.

 

Bucky shook his head. “Sorry for waking you.”

 

“Don’t worry about it.” Steve kept working on his shoulder. Bucky remembered him doing this before, after the accident. Steve had done a lot for him back then, back before Bucky had re-learned how to take care of himself. Steve had had to help him dress, make food, open containers, even wash his damn hair. He still needed help sometimes, even now, even after mastering the trials of shirt buttons and shoelaces.

 

Steve had given up so much for him. Before Bucky’s accident he’d been working overseas, in a job he loved. He’d had to give up over a year of his life to be an unofficial live-in nurse. And Bucky, grief-stricken, had rarely been a willing patient. Hell, those first few months he’d given Steve nothing but trouble.

 

“Bucky, you keep tensing up. You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

 

And he was still _taking._

 

 

Steve had his life to live. He had his Soulmate. He was getting married soon. Bucky could not keep doing this to Steve.

 

He sat up and gently pushed Steve’s hands away. “I’m fine, Stevie. It was just a dream.”

 

Steve frowned worriedly at him. Bucky hated when he looked like that. “You know I’m here for you, right? Whatever you need, whenever you need it.”

 

“I know.” Bucky swallowed past the thickness in his throat. “Thanks. I’ll be alright, I promise. You should go back to sleep.”

 

Steve did not look convinced, but nodded. “Okay, if that’s what you want. You too, huh? The sleep-deprived raccoon look really doesn’t suit you,” he teased gently.

 

Bucky shoved at him. “Yeah, yeah. Clear out so I can get some rest, huh punk?”

 

“Jerk,” Steve said fondly and ruffled Bucky’s hair. “Go to sleep, I’ll see you in the morning.”

 

“Nite,” Bucky mumbled.

 

He watched Steve leave. He didn’t go back to sleep. Instead, he got his phone and started texting Clint.  

 

_B: Hey..._

 

\------------

 

Clint was hanging out on his couch, winding down after a late shift at work and watching some re-run spanish drama (they had better subtitles than the closed-captioning on HBO), when he saw Lucky perk up his head and stare at the door.

 

Clint frowned. He wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, but the pounding at the door was heavy enough that he could just about feel it through the floorboards. He sighed, picked up his aids from where he’d set them on the coffee table and turned them on. Christ, that _was_ loud. Who the hell would be trying to break his door down this late at night? Fearing it was one of the other residents needing his help, Clint opened the door immediately.

 

Barney Barton, the last person on earth Clint wanted to see and definitely the last person he expected to show up on his doorstep at ass-past midnight, stood there and threw his arms wide in greeting. “Hey! There you are! How’s my very favorite baby brother?”

 

Clint shut the door in his face.

 

“Aw, don’t be like that!” Barney shouted through the door. “Come on, Clint! We’re family! Can’t a man come see his only living blood?”

 

Clint groaned and thunked his forehead against the door as Barney continued cajoling, loudly. The last time Clint had seen his brother, it’d been the back of him. He’d left Clint bleeding, injured, and helpless, practically a wrapped-up present for the cops who’d been chasing them after their last, failed job. Barney had thrown Clint to the wolves to save his own skin, left him to rot in jail. Now he just shows up, conveniently right after a group of thugs name-drop him and start up an intimidation racket? “Go away!” Clint yelled through the door. “I don’t want any!”  The pounding on the door started up again and Clint squeezed his eyes shut. _What a fucking racket._ The neighbors were gonna be pissed. Somebody was bound to call in a noise disturbance if this kept up and Clint _did not need that._   

 

He yanked the door back open and scowled. “What the fuck do you want, Barney?”

 

Barney held his hands up defensively. “I just want to talk, Clint. That’s all.”

 

“Maybe I don’t want to talk to you.”

 

“Just five minutes, I swear.”

 

Clint narrowed his eyes. “If this is about money, I swear to God--”

 

“It’s not about money,” Barney said hurriedly. “Well, it’s sorta about money--but not money from you! I promise, all I’m asking for is your time.”

 

Clint sighed. Feeling like he was doing something he would regret later, he stepped out of the doorway and let Barney inside. He closed the door, crossed his arms, and gave his brother a stare. “Alright, fine. Talk.”

 

Barney looked around the apartment for a moment before he said anything. _Scoping the place,_ Clint thought. He’d be offended if he didn’t know it was instinctual--a reaction he shared, still, despite being out of that life for years now.

 

Finally Barney looked at him and said, “I’m in trouble.”

 

Clint glared at him warningly.

 

“No-- Clint hear me out.” Clint rolled his eyes, but somehow resisted the urge to take his aids out so he _couldn’t_ hear. “I don’t need your help. I’m not asking for that. This is just a-, a head’s up. A warning.” He paused. “Though if you could do me a favor--”

 

Clint held his hand up and turned his back on his brother. “Out, Barney.”

 

Barney came around him back into his line of vision. “Listen, I know we haven’t always gotten along but we’re brothers, Clint. We’re blood! We look out for each-other!”

 

“Oh, we’re ‘blood’?!” Clint yelled incredulously. “We ‘look out for each-other’!? You broke my arm and left me in a ravine!”

 

“That was Trick!” Barney protested. “I had to go along with it and throw the cops off our tail or they would’ve got all of us!”

 

“So blood’s not so thick when you need a scapegoat, right?”

 

“I’m sorry about that, Clint. I truly am. It was wrong of me, and I know I can’t make up for that. But now Trick is trying to pull the same thing on me, and it isn’t just some con job this time--”

 

“Why should I help you clean up your messes, Barney?” Clint said tiredly.

 

“Because this is serious shit this time, Clint! Don’t give me that--” He ducked as Clint tried to look away again. “Look, these people that Trick’s been working with… they’re bad news. Real bad news. People getting hurt sorta bad news.”

 

“Like we never hurt anybody.”

 

“We only hurt their wallets,” Barney said dismissively, as if cheating people out of their livelihoods wasn’t _hurting_ them. “This is seriously bad shit! Mob hits, human trafficking--”

 

“What?” Clint focused on Barney in surprise. “What the hell is Trick doing with that kind of trouble?”

 

“I don’t know,” Barney said, “but I told him I was done with it. He didn’t like that, and… well, you know how he gets when he doesn’t like you.”

 

Clint winced. He remembered. He looked away, chewing on his lip thoughtfully. “This got something to do with the serial loiterers I keep having to chase off my lawn?”

 

“It’s part of that,” Barney said evasively. Clint stared him down until his shuffled his feet and muttered, “I might’ve pissed Trick off when I left. Said some things. I went off the grid to try and shake him but--”

 

“So it _is_ your fault. They’re hitting me to try and get to you. God dammit.” Clint ran a hand down his face. “Fucking _hell_ Barney--”

 

“Look, I know--”

 

“No no, here we go again. _You’re_ the one in trouble and I’m just getting dragged along with you--”

 

“ _Clint_ \--”  

 

“And all these _other_ people too! Christ, Barney, there’s kids in this building and these assholes have been--”

 

“Clint _listen!”_ Barney grabbed him by the shoulders. “I know you’re mad about this, you can be mad about it all you want. But that doesn’t change a thing. _This_ is where we are, this is what’s happening, and now we’ve gotta deal with the hand we’ve been given.”

 

Clint growled in disgust and jerked out of Barney’s grip. He stepped a few paces away and laced his hands behind his neck, scowling at the floor. Why couldn’t the past just stay where he’d left it?

 

Barney moved into his field of vision again, but kept his hands to himself. “Hey. I know this feels like crap right now, and you got no reason to believe me, but I’m telling you. This was gonna happen anyway. Maybe not now, maybe in a few years but--” he looked away a moment and took a bracing breath. “With how Trick’s been expanding, the kind of shit he’s getting into now… you _know_ he doesn’t like loose ends. And little brother, you and me are loose ends.” He ducked to catch eye contact. “He have to take him down. For our own sakes.”

 

Clint sighed heavily. Barney could be lying, he knew. The both of them had learned how to lie on their father’s knee like a second language, but Barney had always been better at it. That had only gotten worse after meeting Trick. Barney could be playing him, trying to use him for something. But…Clint didn’t have much choice. He couldn’t keep fighting goons off his front lawn forever. His shoulders slumped resignedly. “Okay. Alright. What do we do?”

 

Barney smiled. “I got a plan. I don’t need anything from you, except maybe a good word or two.” Clint gave him an unimpressed stare, but Barney pushed onward. “You know that babysitter of yours? The suit?”

 

Clint frowned. “Who, Coulson? He’s a desk jockey, what do you want with him?”

 

“He’s an FBI Agent.”

 

Clint burst out laughing.

 

“I’m serious!” Barney protested, “He’s a fed!”

 

“Oh my god, you’re so full of shit.” Clint shoved his fist in his mouth to contain his laughter. Just trying to imagine his straight-laced, nerdy parole officer as some kind of _James Bond_ put him in hysterics.

 

“Yeah, laugh all you want,” Barney was saying, “but my sources are--”

 

“Bullshit,” Clint laughed. “Your sources are bullshit. Oh my god, _Coulson_ ? Seriously? The guy who was late for a parole meeting once because he was at a comic book convention in town and then showed up in costume? _That_ Coulson?”

 

“Clint--”

 

“What are you gonna do, turn yourself in? Try and work out a deal? _‘Oh please, Mister Coulson, sir, I’ll tell you all I know just don’t hurt me or throw me in jail!’_ Hey, maybe if you ask him nice he’ll put on the Captain America suit so you can feel patriotic about it.”

 

“You’re such a little shit.” Barney shook his head at him. “Here I am, tryin’ to do a good thing for once in my life--”  

 

“No you’re not, you’re dragging me face-first into your shit again and making _me_ have to pull us both back out of it.”

 

“Clint! Jesus!” Barney yelled and threw his hands up. “I _never_ wanted to drag you into this! I never _wanted_ you to get hurt. Believe it or not I do care about you--”

 

“ _Bullshit._ You never gave a fuck about me--”

 

“Will you just _listen--_ ”

 

“No, Barney, I _can’t_ fucking _listen!”_ Clint yelled and gestured at his ears. _“I’m fucking deaf!”_  

 

“Don’t pull that pity party garbage, you know what I mean.”

 

“I wanted out of this,” Clint said morosely. “One stay in jail was enough. I got a _life_ now, I’ve got--” he choked up, angrily stomped over to his couch and fell into it. _I’ve got_ **_Bucky._ ** _And I don’t want him anywhere near this._ Not that Clint was ever going to tell Barney about his soulmate.  

 

Barney muttered something Clint couldn’t make out and he looked up. Barney shook his head at him. “Let me get my foot in the door with this guy,” he was saying. “Just… just stay safe for now. Keep your head down.”

 

“Same shit I’ve been doing,” Clint said in a monotone. Barney said something else, but Clint had stopped paying attention. Barney got the hint, and finally had the decency to leave.

 

The door swung shut on his brother’s back. Clint dropped his head into his hands. _Fucking Trick._ Clint didn’t want this. He’d wanted _out_ , wanted to leave all of his old life back in the past where it belonged. He didn’t _want_ this.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lucky peek his head around the doorway into the room. He must’ve run off to hide at some point. Clint signed _come here_ at him and Lucky hopped up onto his lap. Clint hugged his dog and buried his face in fur. God, why did his life have to be such a pain in the ass?

 

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that, but Lucky didn’t protest. He never did, when it mattered. “Good boy,” Clint murmured.

 

Eventually Lucky sat up and looked over at the coffee table, which made Clint look too and see that his phone was blinking at him. Clint reached over to get it and Lucky took the opportunity to wriggle away and go curl up on the floor next to the television.

 

Swiping the unlock, Clint saw he had a bunch of texts. From Bucky.

 

_B: Hey..._

_B: I figure you’re not awake but I hope you don’t mind me texting at you_

_B: Just need to get some things out of my head_

_B: I had a bad dream_

_B: That sounds stupid. I... It was about the accident when I lost my arm_

_B: I guess I’m just feeling upset and mad at myself_

_B: And I miss you_

_B: I miss you a lot_

 

Clint screwed his eyes shut and pressed the phone against his lips. God, he.. He wanted _Bucky._ He wanted Bucky so bad. Wanted to feel him, smell him, touch his face. Wanted Bucky right there in front of him where he could hold onto him _._ If he concentrated, Clint could just remember how Bucky’s hand had felt entwined with his own, how soft Bucky’s lips had felt, the brightness in his eyes that the screens never seemed to pick up right. God, it had been almost... two months? Two and a half? Too long. Way too long since they’d been apart.

 

He needed to see Bucky. He didn’t bother texting back, just sent a call request through the video-chat program. He needed to _see_ him.

 

Bucky’s face appeared on the screen after a minute, frowning and looking sleep-rumpled. “Did I wake you up?” Bucky asked.

 

Clint shook his head. “No,” he said roughly, then cleared his throat. He hoped he didn’t look as upset as he felt. He didn’t want Bucky to worry. “You okay?”

 

Bucky blew a breath through his teeth and rubbed the top of his head. His hair was still shorn close and it had not ceased to look unnatural on him. “I don’t know. I--” he paused. “Do you ever just get sick to death of yourself?”

 

“Constantly,” Clint said, managing half a smile.

 

“Well, that’s what I got right now.” Bucky leaned back against what Clint guessed was the headboard of his bed. “I’m feeling…” he waved his hand vaguely, not quite signing a _‘nothing’._ “I’m tired. Of myself. Of being this…” he trailed off for a minute. Clint settled back on the couch and curled himself around his phone, held it like an anchor. He wished he could reach through the image and touch. “I gotta get my head together,” Bucky said. “I guess I’m--, I’m feeling like dead weight. And I have been for a while, and I’m tired of it.”

 

“What you mean, dead weight?” Clint said, more mumbled than he intended.

 

Bucky shrugged one shoulder. “It’s been hard. Adjusting, to…” he gestured vaguely at his missing arm. “I never liked having to rely on anybody, you know? If anything it was _me_ taking care of other people. That’s what--... it doesn’t feel right the other way around.”

 

Clint frowned a little. “I’m not following you.”

 

“I don’t like … I don’t like being looked after,” Bucky stuttered. “I don’t like needing help, and I’ve needed so _much_ of it--”

 

“That’s not your fault,” Clint interrupted. “I mean, I get what you’re saying, but come on man. You shouldn’t feel bad needing an extra hand with things when you’re missing one.”

 

Bucky gave a weak laugh, which Clint took as a positive sign. “I know, it’s--…But I can’t turn it off, you know? I gotta balance the scales.” He chewed on his lip a moment. “And I don’t know how to start doing that.”

 

“You’re thinking too hard.” Clint smiled wryly. “I can hear your guilt complex all the way through the phone.”

 

Bucky smiled at him a moment, then his face fell into something serious and sad. “I miss you.”

 

Clint’s gut twisted; he felt his eyes prickling with shameful tears and took a breath to get himself under control. “I miss you too,” he choked out.

 

“I know it’s not...you’re not _that_ far away,” Bucky said, voice shaky and looking away from the screen. “It’s Pennsylvania, not fuckin’ _Mars_ or something, but…”

 

Clint squeezed his eyes shut, guiltily. He felt like such an asshole. Two measly hours away and Clint couldn’t even get up off his ass to go see his _soulmate._ And he couldn’t even tell him _why._   

 

“Clint?” Bucky’s voice was hesitant. Clint clutched the phone tighter.

 

He wished everything was different. He wished his brother wasn’t an asshole who couldn’t keep his problems to himself, he wished his shitty past would just let him _go_ already. He wished he wasn’t such a coward. He wished he could tell Bucky everything. “I love you,” he pushed out, ashamed at how wrecked his own voice sounded.

 

“I love you too,” Bucky said, sounding confused. “Clint, what’s the matter?”

 

He shook his head, opened his eyes again and gave Bucky a smile he hoped looked sincere. “Nothin’. Just tired.” Bucky did not look like he believed him. He had that unhappy little squint to his eyes. Clint wanted to kiss it away. “Hey,” he hesitated. “I got some… stuff...to wrap up down here.” He winced internally at himself. Damn, he was really wrecked if he couldn’t come up with a good cover story. “I’m hoping it won’t take long. But after...I’m gonna come see you.” And damn the consequences of it. Clint would make it work somehow.  

 

Bucky looked at him ruefully. “You’re fallin’ asleep on me.”

 

“No I’m not,” Clint mumbled.

 

“Go to bed, huh? We’ll talk in the morning.” Bucky smiled at him, but he looked sad. And it hurt like hell, because Clint knew it was his fault.

 

\-------------

 

Clint was dead asleep in his bed when wet dog tongue on his face woke him up.

 

“Ugh, Lucky…” he groaned. The dog pushed at him, then made the bed wobble as he hopped in a circle. “Alright, alright,” Clint grumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “I’m up, hang on.”

 

He pushed himself upright. Then blinked as Lucky dropped his aids case into his lap. Blinked again as Lucky hopped off the bed and pressed his nose to the closed bedroom door. The dog’s shoulders were hunched, tail held low. Warily, Clint slipped in his aids and turned them on. He froze. It was faint and muffled, but Clint distinctly heard crashing noises. They were coming from his living room.

 

He slipped out of bed, lightly, noiselessly like he still remembered how to do. “Good boy,” he murmured to Lucky, and crept over to retrieve his bow from the closet.

 

He signed at Lucky _stay,_ and slowly pushed open the door. The crashing got more distinct as he crept along the hallway. He nocked an arrow, sidled up to the archway and peeked into the living room.

 

_Shit._ He could see two-- no, three guys in black outfits and ski-masks from his position, two near the front door and one in the living room with a sledgehammer. They had already made a wreck of his apartment. Books, papers and trash were strewn everywhere, and his TV was sparking from a huge hole in the screen. He couldn’t see into the kitchen, couldn’t hear well enough to tell if there were more in the apartment. He grimaced and thought about calling Kate. Or the police, maybe.

 

_Fuck that,_ **_my_ ** _apartment._  

 

In one smooth motion stood Clint stood, drew back his bow and slipped into the living area with his back to the wall. “Hey!” he called.

 

The black-clad figures stared at him. The kitchen was clear, thankfully. He wasn’t keen on getting stabbed with his own kitchen knives.

 

Clint bared his teeth in a challenging smirk. “Aw, all this for little old me? You guys must have the wrong place, nothin’ worth stealing here. Except maybe the Tivo, and you already smashed that.”

 

Sledgehammer rounded on him, and Clint stood his ground. “Cops’re on their way,” he bluffed. “You guys clear out now, maybe I’ll let you leave without any extra holes.”

 

The figures looked at each-other, then one of the door guys laughed and stepped toward him. Clint loosed a warning shot close enough to nick the black fabric of the guy’s mask, arrow burying itself into the wall close right next to the second guy’s arm. Clint had a fresh arrow nocked and drawn before they could even react.

 

They didn’t laugh anymore.

 

Mask #1 looked at Clint, and sneered through the hole in his balaclava. “We ain’t here to steal nothin’. Here to send a message.”

 

Clint felt his chest tighten. “You know there’s this thing called email.”

 

“We know Barney was here,” the Mask said, ignoring him. “Our guys caught him leaving. Have a nice little family reunion, did you?”

 

_Fuck._ Clint narrowed his eyes. “Don’t know who you’re talking about.”

 

“Don’t play stupid, Barton,” said the Mask. So much for that tactic.  

 

“Stupid’s all I’m really good for,” Clint quipped dryly. Then he got serious. “What did you do with Barney?”

 

The man looked like he swallowed something nasty, and growled at him. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”  

 

“He gave you the slip, then.” He grinned, ferally. “Somebody’s gonna be disappointed in you.”

 

“Fuck you,” the man spat. “He’ll come running back here when he hears what we’re about to do to his baby brother.”

 

“I’d like to see you try,” Clint challenged him. Which was, predictably, when the man drew a handgun from his waistband.

 

Clint loosed his arrow. It hit the man in the shoulder, knocking off his aim, but the gun still fired. Clint’s aids screeched painfully but he ignored it, nocking a second arrow and firing at Mask #2, the one with the sledgehammer. That hit him in the leg and dropped him. His mouth was open in a scream but Clint couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t hear anything anymore.

 

Mask #1 had recovered by now, swapped the handgun to his other hand. Clint ducked into a tight roll and came up riser-first. He felt the punch of air as the gun went off over his shoulder, clocked the guy across the face with his bow and knocked him to the floor. He kicked the man’s fallen gun out of the way and slammed his heel down on the man’s wrist.

 

Clint was just turning to deal with Mask #3, when out of the corner of his eye he saw a sudden rush of yellow fur. _“Lucky, no!”_

 

Everything happened in slow motion. He saw the gun raise, saw Lucky rush in, teeth bared. Clint nocked and drew his bow but he was too damned _slow._ He loosed his arrow a fraction of a heartbeat after the gun kicked back in recoil. The arrow punched right through the man’s arm and stuck in the wall behind him, pinning him.

 

Lucky had slid to the ground and wasn’t moving.

 

Clint panicked.

  


Later, he wouldn’t remember scrambling to the bathroom for gauze to press against the wound, opening the package with his teeth and babbling softly as he secured it to bloody fur. He wouldn’t remember picking Lucky up and carrying the 50-pound retriever in his arms down four flights of stairs and completely abandoning the arrow-ridden would-be robbers. He wouldn’t remember speeding down the highway in his truck, hoping and praying he would get there in time, that he wouldn’t be too late, that Lucky wouldn’t bleed out in his lap.

 

He wouldn’t remember the police car that started following him, lights flashing, halfway there. He would, just barely, remember pulling right up to the entrance of the animal hospital and jumping the curb. He’d remember bursting through the door, Lucky in his arms, and pleading with the first person he saw to _“Please help me, please, they shot him, they shot my dog, please save him.”_    

 

He would remember feeling Lucky whine as they took him from Clint’s arms. He would remember people around him, holding him back from following as they took his dog away; people coming into his field of vision, trying to speak to him, faint murmur-noise he couldn’t hope to make out, a woman in a police uniform who held his shoulders, a man in nurse’s scrubs who pushed her away and signed at him _“we’ll help you, it’s okay, we’ll help you,”_ until Clint collapsed to the ground in sobs.  

 

\-----------

 

Bucky snapped awake, crawling out of a nightmare where Clint was crying hysterically on the other side of a plate-glass wall and Bucky couldn’t reach him, no matter how hard he beat against the glass. For a few moments he was disoriented, looking around wondering what woke him. Then his phone buzzed again and made a clatter on the nightstand. He picked it up and saw that he had three missed calls and over a dozen new texts, all from Kate. Panic clawed up Bucky’s throat. There were few reasons for Kate to contact him, and only one that would have her so desperate to contact him immediately. Bucky opened up the messages.

 

_K: WAKE UP!_

_K: Hey_

_K: Clint’s a mess_

_K: Were at the animal hospital and they called ME_

_K: Answer your phone omg_

_K: Clint’s aids are dead he won’t talk to anyone OR sign to me_

_K: I need u to get him to calm down_

_K: He brought Lucky in with a gunshot wound and he is freaking out_

_K: He won’t leave the hospital_

_K: He’s covered in blood_

 

Bucky immediately stopped reading and dialed Kate.

 

“There you fucking are!” Kate cried as soon as she picked up.

 

“Is he okay!?” Bucky interrupted, urgently. “Why is he at the animal hospital still and not at a _people_ hospital!? Can you see where he’s bleeding?”

 

“What?” Katie said. “Oh, geez it’s not _his_ blood. I mean that’s what he said--”

 

“And you believed him!? Kate--!”

 

“He is _really_ not being cooperative right now, that’s why I called you! He’ll barely sign at me and he won’t even look at the cop--sorry, I mean Officer Rambeau, sorry ma’am--”

 

“There’s a cop there?” Bucky asked. “What happened?”

 

“I told you! He showed up at the animal hospital, carrying Lucky and _covered in blood._ God, you listen worse than he does!”    

 

Bucky took a breath. Then another. Hand still shaking, he set the phone on speaker and put it down, then started getting dressed. “Okay, I’m listening now. What else do you know? Tell me everything.”

 

Kate’s voice was tinny over the speaker-phone. “All I could get out of him was that some guys broke into his apartment and shot Lucky. I guess that afterward, he just picked Lucky up and drove him here. Officer Rambeau saw him driving like crazy on the highway and tried to pull him over but he didn’t stop, and she followed him here. He’s hysterical, Bucky. He won’t talk to anyone.”

 

“Why’d they call you?” Bucky frowned, pulling on his boots. “How did they even have your number?”

 

“I take care of Lucky sometimes when Clint goes in to Philly for--actually I don’t know why he goes there. I figured he was meeting friends or a secret girlfriend or something but then he met _you_ and--”  

 

_“Kate.”_

 

“--I guess Clint must have given the vet my information? Oh my god I have dual custody of the dog--”   

 

Bucky scooped the phone back up and went into the living room. “Let me talk to him. Video-call. Let him see me.”

 

“I’ll try. But he’s totally a wreck, I’m warning you. And he can’t hear you at all, not through the phone.”

 

“That’s okay.” Bucky dug through a drawer and got a pen and a pad of paper. “I’ll manage. Just get him to look at me.”  

 

He flicked on the light, so Clint could see, and set his phone up to get a good angle of him on the couch. Steve stumbled into the living room yawning. “Buck, what’s all the noise? What’s going on?”

 

“Clint,” Bucky answered him roughly. Then he spoke at the phone. “Okay, Kate. I’m ready on this end.”

 

Katie’s phone connected and the image blinked on. Clint and Kate were both in-frame, the phone obviously held by someone else. Kate was trying to get Clint to look at her. And _God,_ Bucky’s chest tightened. Clint looked an absolute wreck. His face was red like he’d been crying, tear-tracks down his cheeks. There was blood on his shirt, in his hair and smeared across his forehead. Kate had said his aids were busted; he wasn’t even wearing them.

 

“Hey,” Bucky said, voice cracking as he waved at the screen to try and get Clint’s attention. Kate looked over, then grabbed Clint’s chin and turned his face towards the phone.

 

Clint blinked, his eyes focused on Bucky, and his face just crumpled.

 

Bucky could only watch as Clint jerked up away from Kate and got up, went out of frame, tried to get away. “Clint, Clint, no,” he heard Kate say uselessly. The camera tracked them, an unsteady jerking.

 

“He has to stay in here until the interpreter arrives or I’m going to have to take him into custody now,” Bucky heard another voice saying. “I don’t want to have to do that--sir!” The camera settled, giving Bucky a wider view. They were in some kind of office, beige walls and plastic chairs. Clint was trying to push past a dark-skinned woman in a police uniform, while Kate was pulling at his arm. Bucky covered his mouth to keep in a noise of distress. Clint looked even worse now that Bucky could see all of him. There was dried blood caked all over his torso and the top of his sweatpants, on his forearms (though someone had apparently made him clean his hands). He was barefoot. Bucky couldn’t see any tears in his clothing that would point out injuries, but he was worried.

 

“No. He cannot--” the officer started.

 

“I know, I know,” Kate interrupted. “Clint, come here--Mac, help.”

 

The camera shifted again, too wobbly to see anything. Somehow they managed to wrangle Clint back into the office and sit him down in a chair. “Mac, just shove it at him,” Bucky heard Kate say, and suddenly the phone screen was filled with Clint’s stubborn face.

 

**“Please,”** Bucky signed at him. **“Look at me, please.”**

 

Clint looked away, looked down, looked over at Kate who moved into the screen briefly to touch Clint’s face and redirect him to the phone. Finally he focused on Bucky, bit his lip and nodded.

 

Bucky held up a finger for him to wait, grabbed the pen and wrote out on the pad and showed the camera:

 

CLINT, I’M COMING TO YOU. PLEASE LET KATE HELP YOU. I’LL BE THERE AS SOON AS I CAN.

 

Clint, on seeing the message, screwed up his face again and shook his head.

 

Bucky put down the pad and signed forcefully, clumsily. **“I’m going to you, OK? Wait for me.”**

 

Clint just looked more upset, and Bucky didn’t know why. He didn’t know how to fix it. **“Please. Clint.”** As he whispered Clint’s name he held the C near his heart, like Clint did when he signed Bucky’s name.

 

Clint covered his mouth. His shoulders hunched, eyes wet like he was about to start crying again. Bucky reached forward, wishing he was _there_ already, and signed **“I love you”.**  

 

And Clint broke down. He rose his hand and signed it back with tears running down his face.

 

Feeling ready to break down himself, Bucky signed again, **“Wait for me, I’m coming,”** until he got Clint to nod at him.

 

Kate took back the phone then, and Bucky filled her in. “I’ll be down there as soon as I can. Just… try and keep him out of trouble. I’m not sure how long it’ll--”  

 

“Two hours.”

 

Bucky looked up. There was Steve, fully dressed with keys in hand. “Bit under two hours to get to Philly,” Steve said. “I bet I can cut it down to an hour and a half. Roads are pretty clear this time of night.” He raised his eyebrows at Bucky’s shocked look. “Well? Are we going or what?”

 

Bucky stood and pulled Steve into a crushing hug. _“Thank you.”_

 

\----------

 

The ride down was tense. Kate kept them updated, but it didn’t settle Bucky’s anxiety. It didn’t help that it was dark, and an empty highway, and Bucky couldn’t shake the image of Clint in bloodied clothes. He had to keep his eyes closed and focus on his breathing, or he was afraid he’d lose it entirely.

 

His phone trilled at him. Kate was actually calling him for once instead of texting, which was novel enough that he nearly dropped the phone in a spike of panic, wondering of Clint was really hurt or if he’d been arrested or…

 

“He’s mad at me for paying Lucky’s vet bill,” Kate complained before he couldn’t even say anything. “Like, seriously? He’s the one who put me on the contact forms, and now he’s mad at me for being a financially responsible pet-parent?”

 

Bucky thunked his head back against the seat, exhaling in a rush. “Jesus, Katie.”

 

“What? It’s not like his poor ass needs to deal with the bills right now and what _else_ am I going to use my dad’s money for--”  

 

“Kate, is there news or did you just call me to complain?”

 

She made a frustrated noise. “Lucky’s gonna be okay but they’re keeping him a night or two, which is good because I still need to buy dog food and bribe my landlord, and the interpreter finally showed up and now they’re taking Clint over to the station for questioning because apparently they found a guy still pinned to his wall.”

 

“He _pinned a guy to the wall?”_

 

“Yeah, with an arrow. I mean they shot Lucky so they totally had it coming. Who shoots a dog?!”  

 

“Jesus, is he arrested?”

 

“What? No, no he’s not, but the cops were really weird about it. They took his bow, he had it in his truck.”

 

Steve was giving him a weird look. “He pinned a guy to a wall with an arrow,” Bucky said.

 

“They were breaking and entering!” Katie interrupted.

 

Bucky decided not to argue with her. It was not important right now. “Kate, the police station they took him to, what’s the address?” She told him, and he relayed it to Steve to stick into the GPS. “Do they know we’re coming?”

 

“Yes, they know ‘The Soulmate’ is coming,” Kate said, sounding exasperated. “I don’t know if they’ll let you see him or not, you’re not registered. Why the hell aren’t you registered?”

 

“Kate, nobody gets registered anymore--”

 

“Well you _totally should_ for situations like this! So you don’t get cops in your face like--hey! Mac!”

 

“Sorry about her,” a new voice said. “She’s really freaked out over getting dragged out of bed for this. _Breathe, chica.”_

 

“Who is this?” Bucky asked.

 

“America. Kate’s my Mate. We were at her place when she got the call.”

 

Bucky closed his eyes. Everything the night was throwing at him was starting to give him a headache. “Right...Clint mentioned you a time or two.” At least she sounded _stable._

 

“Cool. So don’t worry about anybody giving you trouble when you get in here. I know some people. I’ll take care of it.”

 

“Okay,” Bucky exhaled a sigh. He really didn’t want to know. “We’ll get there soon. I think we’re about twenty minutes out from the city.”

 

“See you then.”

 

Bucky stared at the phone after the call shut off. He turned to Steve, who was clearly waiting for an explanation. “Clint’s not arrested. But apparently Kate is sleeping with America.”

 

The confused look on Steve’s did not come close to balancing out this hell of a night, but it helped.

 

\----

 

They got to the station and entered into a reception area. Kate was there, asleep, with her head pillowed on the shoulder of a girl who was wearing a spangly stars-and-stripes trucker hat pulled low over gravity-defying curls. The girl looked up from her phone and nodded seriously at them.

 

“You the Soulmate?” the uniform behind the desk asked when they announced themselves. At Bucky’s nod, the uniform gave him an unimpressed once-over, then transferred his gaze to Steve. “And you?”  

 

“Soulmate’s brother,” Steve answered.

 

The uniform muttered something beside his mustache. “Immediate relations only. You’ll have to stay out here.”

 

“Over here, big guy,” said the girl, who must have been America. “Saved you a seat.” Steve gave Bucky an encouraging nod and headed over to the chairs.

 

Bucky followed the uniform back through a security checkpoint and two guarded gates into what looked like a holding area. There were more officers back here, as well as people who were clearly prisoners. A few were handcuffed to their seats. “I thought he wasn’t being detained,” Bucky said warily.

 

“Not officially,” the uniform groused. “This is just for his safety. Mister Barton arrived in an agitated emotional state and is _not_ communicative.”

 

“He’s _deaf_.” Bucky had to step around a cleaning person as he followed the uniform down a small corridor. “You guys are aware of that right?”

 

The uniform just grunted. “County interpreter’s on-site. We’re waiting for the parole unit to arrive, now.”

 

“The what?” Bucky’s steps stuttered; he was sure he’d misheard that. But the uniform only gave him a flat look and let him into a tiny room containing only a low metal table and a few chairs--  and _Clint._

 

Bucky sagged in relief. _He’s okay._

 

Clint was curled up in a chair, looking miserable. Someone had given him clean clothes that looked far too much like the prison outfits Bucky had seen earlier in the hall, and he was still barefoot, but he was _there_ and looked uninjured. Bucky walked towards him and breathed his name, though he knew Clint couldn’t hear him.  

 

He saw the moment Clint realized someone was in the room; he tensed, then flowed up from his seat into what Bucky was shocked to recognize as a fighter’s stance, fists bared and face blank. And then he saw it was Bucky, and like throwing a switch all the fight flowed out of him.

 

Bucky reached for him. Clint twitched away, like he expected to be hit. He curled his shoulders and turned his eyes to the floor and roughly choked out, “I’m sorry.”

 

He hesitated, confused as hell. Why was Clint acting like this? Nothing was adding up. But there was a wetness in Clint’s eyes again and he was gritting his teeth trying to fight it, and Bucky closed the distance between them and pulled Clint in against himself. Clint didn’t resist; he shuddered and hid his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck.

 

For a while, Bucky just held him. His head still swam with confusion but Clint was _there,_ real and physical and in Bucky’s embrace. He pressed his nose into Clint’s hair and inhaled. He still smelt of blood.

 

“Hey…” he tried to tap at the back of Clint’s head for attention, but Clint resisted, arms winding around him and clinging.

 

“Please, just a--, just another minute.” Clint sounded _wrecked._ “Before you throw me out. Just for a sec…”

 

“What? I’m not--” Bucky started, then sighed. He shifted around, trying to get Clint to look _up_ at him without moving away. Clint made horrible, broken noise and Bucky took Clint’s chin and _made_ him look at him. _“I. Am._ **_Not._ ** _Leaving. You.”_ He enunciated as clear as he could. Then he released Clint and switched to signing. **“I don’t know what--... what’s doing here--”** he growled, frustrated at his lack of skill. **“But I don’t care.** **_I don’t care._ ** **”** He stared intently into Clint’s eyes. **“I am with you. Okay?”**

 

Clint just turned his head back into Bucky’s chest and clung to his jacket.

 

Bucky sighed. He murmured nonsense that he knew Clint couldn’t hear, but it made him feel less helpless. If all he could do was stand here and hold on to Clint, well then that was what he was going to do.

 

Some time--minutes, hours later, the door to the room opened up again. Bucky tightened his hold on Clint instinctively. Two people came in the room; a slightly balding white man who appeared to be the very definition of “average”, and an equally-unassuming woman in all black with a badge around her neck. Clint looked up to see what Bucky had reacted to, spotted the new arrivals, cursed and stepped sharply away from Bucky with a guilty look on his face. Bucky was baffled.

 

The man raised his eyebrows and folded his hands in front of himself. “You must be Bucky,” he said. “Clint’s spoken a lot about you.”

 

The woman had started signing while the man spoke. Bucky figured she was the interpreter, so directed his question at the man. “Who are you?”

 

“Coulson, he doesn’t know.” Clint spoke up, his voice still rough but sounding hollow now, resigned. “I never told him.”

 

Bucky looked between Clint and the man, who was giving Clint a look of profound disapproval. “What? Never told me what?”  

 

The man sighed. He turned to Bucky. “I’m Phillip Coulson, Mister Barton’s parole officer.” Then he looked back to Clint, who looked like he was preparing for the firing squad, and signed to him while he spoke. “Clint. **Would you like to explain yourself to your soulmate?”**  

 

Clint met Bucky’s shocked gaze, throat working as he swallowed. He took a slow, shaking breath. Then his gaze dropped to the floor and started signing, not looking at anyone. His hands were shaking and Bucky didn’t know enough sign to follow along, but the interpreter’s voice started up and Bucky’s breath froze in his throat.

 

_“I’m a criminal.”_

 

Bucky stared at Clint as the story broke through the air, watching his face pinch and threaten to crumble.

 

_“I’m a liar, and a thief. I went to jail two years ago for robbery and got out last fall on parole.”_ Clint struggled a moment, raised his eyes enough to look at Bucky. He looked like he couldn’t decide whether to break down or to force his emotions under control. _“I’m on parole, that’s why I couldn’t come to see you. I’m not allowed to leave the state. I didn’t want to tell you.”_

 

Bucky wanted to ask him _why,_ but he was frozen. So many things made sense, all of a sudden; why Clint had seemed so scared, why it had felt like he was hiding something for so long. But Bucky didn’t understand _why_ Clint had felt he’d needed to.

 

_“I grew up with the lying,”_ Clint continued. _“I never knew any better. And after dad--”_ Clint flinched reflexively. Bucky’s hand twitched, wanting to hold him again. _“My brother and me, we joined…”_ Clint shook his head at himself and started over. _“There was a man who took us in. He taught us things worse than lying. I knew it was bad, but I didn’t stop.”_ Clint took a breath, clenched his jaw and looked resolutely at the ground again. _“When I was arrested, my brother and the man...they left me. They never came for me. They threw me away like I was garbage. Nothing.”_

 

Bucky took a step towards Clint, wishing he could understand the signing himself. It felt too… detached, Clint’s words coming out of someone else’s mouth, empty of his personality. Bucky could only watch him and hurt.

 

_“I wanted to put it behind me,”_ Clint continued. He’d lost his battle against crying, a few tears escaping to roll down his cheeks. _“I wanted to start over, have a new life and never think about it again. I wanted to move on.”_ He took a shaking breath and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes for a moment. _“But my brother’s still with him. The men who hurt Lucky, they were looking for my brother. They hurt me to get to him. I couldn’t let them hurt you.”_  

 

He looked up at Bucky again, miserable, and spoke aloud in a guilt-choked voice. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m so sorry. Sorry for lying and-- and hiding and getting you into this mess--” he gasped on a sob. “I didn’t want-- I didn’t--”

 

Bucky unfroze, surged across the room and yanked Clint in against his chest. “You fucking _idiot,_ ” he exhaled into Clint’s hair, as Clint quietly fell right to pieces.  

  

Coulson was polite enough to wait until Clint could get himself back under some semblance of control, then came over and gently tapped Clint’s shoulder for attention. Clint turned his head just enough to look without leaving the safety of Bucky’s embrace.

 

“Clint? **Your brother, Barney,** ” Coulson signed as he spoke, “ **he contacted me. I need to ask you some questions about tonight, and about what’s been going on at your apartment building.”**

 

Clint looked vaguely confused, but his grip on Bucky’s jacket tightened. “Can Bucky stay?” he asked aloud.

 

Coulson hesitated. He turned to Bucky, looking serious. “ **You’ll need to sign a non-disclosure contract, and some other paperwork. This is now part of a federal investigation.”**

 

Clint’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Federal!? You mean you-- no way. You really _are_ a fed?”  

 

Coulson smiled blandly. **“I wear many hats.”** Clint looked flabbergasted.

 

Bucky shook him a little and hugged him close again. “I want to stay with him,” he said to Coulson, without reservation. _He needs me._

 

Coulson simply nodded.

 

\------

 

Later, _after_ , the three of them--Bucky, Clint and Steve--decided to get a hotel for the night. Clint couldn’t leave the city, not with Lucky still in the hospital and the police still to deal with, and Bucky wasn’t about to leave him, and Steve said he wasn’t up for another two-hour drive and anyway he wasn’t going to leave until he was sure things were settled. America had carted Kate off after making sure Clint wasn’t actually going to spend the night in jail or the back of his truck.

 

Steve did insist on getting a separate room, which was kind of him. “He needs you, Buck,” he said. “I’ll be alright. Go on, go take care of him.”

  


So, Bucky did.

 

He shouldered through the door into the room they’d gotten, set the key on the particle-board dresser and took a quick stock. Two beds (soulmates or not, they hadn’t gone anywhere near there yet and Bucky wasn’t about to push when Clint was in an emotional crisis), one shared nightstand in between them, the dresser, and on the far wall a sink and a doorway it was safe to assume led to the bathroom. Sparse, but the place seemed clean enough. No weird smells or stains.

 

He turned to look back at Clint, who had stopped just inside the door and was just standing there with his arms wrapped around himself. “Hey,” he said gently, waving for his attention. Clint’s aid’s were still busted, and he was still withdrawn and silent. He ducked into Clint’s field of vision and beckoned. “Come on, **come here.** ”

 

Clint took a careful breath, still wrecked but trying his damndest not to show it. “’m sorry--” he started, but Bucky reached out and took Clint’s face a moment, thumb against his lips.

 

He shook his head. **“I told you I forgive you,”** he signed. **“Stop it.”**

 

Clint stared at him a moment, looking wary like he didn’t believe him. And Bucky shot him a look back that told Clint he’d better stop being an idiot about this. And Clint rolled his eyes a little and then walked into Bucky’s chest.

 

Bucky held him, rocked them a little, hummed nonsense even though Clint couldn’t hear it. Clint rubbed his face against Bucky’s chest and murmured, muffled, “I don’t deserve you.”

 

Bucky walked them to the nearest bed and sat down it. Clint followed him, still clinging. So he crawled backwards to lie down, Clint getting pulled along by virtue of refusing to let go of Bucky’s shirt, and kicked off his shoes. Clint, still barefoot, didn’t need to bother. They really had to find him some shoes in the morning.

 

They lay facing each-other on the bed, Clint stubbornly tucked under Bucky’s chin. He was apparently done communicating for the night. He was also apparently not going to let Bucky out of his grasp for even a minute. Bucky wondered why he’d even bothered getting a double.

 

He ran his hand through Clint’s hair and swallowed down a sigh. “Don’t worry,” he said into the darkened room, “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”  

 

\-----

 

Morning came. Clint was red-eyed and still not speaking. He ate when food was put in front of him, dressed when clothes were handed to him. He kept his phone constantly at hand. He still kept close to Bucky, hovering, but wouldn’t initiate contact himself. He looked pained about it, like he wanted the contact but couldn’t make himself do it.

 

Bucky eventually gave up and pulled Clint up against his chest while they watched some mindless morning television. He did not remark upon the silent tears that tracked down Clint’s face.

 

Around 9 AM, they finally got a call from the animal hospital. They all piled into Steve’s car, Bucky and Clint in the back with Clint tucked up against Bucky’s side, because he wasn’t letting him go. It was a testament to Steve’s character and the solemnity of the situation that he did not crack a single chauffeur joke.

 

When they entered the room Lucky was kept in the poor animal was wrapped up in bandages, but awake and alert. He saw Clint and lifted his head, his tail thumping against the ground. Clint just went over, down onto the floor, and buried his face in Lucky’s fur. His shoulders shook silently. Lucky licked at him.

 

“Steve,” Bucky whispered, looking on, “I can’t leave him. I’m gonna have to stay.”

 

Steve just gave him a side-hug and said, “I know.”

 

\-------

 

“So I can’t go home because my apartment is a crime scene,” Clint said, fiddling with the newly-repaired aids in his ears. “I’m getting put up in a hotel for now, and Kate said she’d take Lucky for a bit until I worked stuff out.”

 

“Are _you_ okay with that?” Bucky asked from the bed. He was flipping through a newspaper while Clint went through his supply-run purchases from the afternoon.

 

Clint shrugged. “Not really, to be honest.” Oh yeah, they’d had the honesty talk.

 

“We can go over to see him as often as you like,” Bucky assured him. “Town isn’t that big, and you can show me the sights.”

 

Clint picked at a thread on his jeans, not looking at him. “You don’t have to, you know. You don’t have to stay. I know I--”

 

“Hey,” Bucky stopped him. “I told you I’m not going anywhere and I meant it. So you’re just gonna have to get used to me sticking around.”

 

“What about your arm stuff?” Clint glanced over, hesitant.

 

“Starks’ got a car. Hell he’s probably got a fleet of ‘em. He can come to me. Now get the fuck over here, I know you’re wanting to.”

 

Clint smiled self-consciously, the “sorry for existing” smile that Bucky vowed to personally eradicate, and crawled up onto the bed to tuck against Bucky’s side. “You’re too good for me,” Clint mumbled.

 

“No such thing,” Bucky countered, and leaned down to kiss him.

 

\--------

 

WEEKS LATER:

 

Bucky tapped his pencil against the desk, peering at his laptop screen as the pre-recorded instructor gesticulated energetically at a large diagram of the brain. Online courses were turning out to be convenient for Bucky’s needs and lifestyle, but it felt weird paying credit hours for what was essentially a youtube video. Stark and Cho’s newest test model was still in the shipping package sitting on the bed, waiting for Clint to get home and help Bucky put it on.

 

He looked up and paused the video at the sound of the door opening, the rustling of paper grocery bags, and Lucky barking excitedly. Bucky smiled at the familiar voice drifting through the apartment. Clint was home.

 

Rustling and footsteps preceded Clint appearing around the corner and making a beeline for Bucky. His expression was closed off, eyes downcast, and Bucky frowned. “Hey, darlin’,” he said, and reached out. Clint took the offered hand, spun Bucky’s chair around and climbed into his lap for a hug. “Rough day?”

 

Clint curled his face in against Bucky’s neck and inhaled deeply before replying. “Coulson called.”

 

Bucky stilled. He freed his hand to run it slowly through Clint’s hair. “And…?”

 

Clint’s voice was rough, quiet. “They want me to testify.”

 

Bucky pressed a kiss to Clint’s forehead. Then hugged him again. “How you feel about that?”

 

Clint looked up and glared at him the way he did now when he caught Bucky using what Clint called “therapist talk” on him. Then he huffed, lay his head back down. Shrugged.

 

“You know, if you’re not comfortable with it--”

 

“This guy needs to be put away, Bucky.”

 

Bucky nodded. Met Clint’s determined gaze. He was struck again with just how strong Clint was, so much stronger than Bucky had ever been. “Gonna be there with you the whole time, front row of the courtroom. Okay?”

 

Clint’s mouth quirked towards a smile. “Yeah.” His hand came up, backs of his fingertips brushing Bucky’s jaw. “Love you, Buck.”

 

“Love you too,” Bucky said, smiled and leaned down to press his lips to Clint’s. They kissed, and kissed again, and were just starting to really get into it when a sudden avalanche of noise from the kitchen pulled them apart.

 

“Aw, Lucky, no!” Clint shot up and ran to go rescue the groceries.

 

Bucky could only swallow a laugh and smile, happy, watching through the doorway as his soulmate scolded the dog like a beloved but frustrating roommate.  

 

Life went on.

   

  

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End! 
> 
> Notes:  
> \-- the meta post I used for the basis of Sam and Steve's "Meeting Story" is [here](http://sashayed.tumblr.com/post/146611331850)  
> \-- "[modular prosthetic limb](http://www.jhuapl.edu/prosthetics/scientists/mpl.as)" technology is real and also awesome  
> \-- i have tried to do my utmost best in portraying Bucky and Clint's differently-abled statuses with respect. Asshole characters in-story do not reflect the views of the author. the author apologizes for any inaccuracies.  
> \-- i did a bunch of worldbuilding for this soulmates-verse and none of it got to see the light of day :D 
> 
> Thank you for reading. Lucky loves you.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Coffee and cigarettes art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7983037) by [PlaidHunters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlaidHunters/pseuds/PlaidHunters)




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